if John could only see his face, he would remember his name





John crawled through the window and chased him the other night. Again. He knows this person, almost remembers his name. He always stays thirty feet in front of me.


He tries to catch up, to run , but it’s like running in water. He needs him to explain the laws of this world. At one point John slips, and f l o a t s forward, the ground sliding by beneath him. He walks, s l o w l y , in front of John, waiting for him to learn the axioms of this world.


John tries to shout, so he’ll turn around, but it’s like shouting in water. I need to know his face and ask him a question. At times John gets lost in another scene, in conversations with friends, family, landscapes and monsters. The nouns that help him build bridges. But, he is always around the corner, compelling John to follow.


And then the bridge, John feels they are close to their goal, because bridges always lead to somewhere important. They are the milestones we see after the fork in the road. They don’t always look like bridges at the time. Usually it feels like I just forded a raging bane. But , afterwards , I look back and there was a bridge, I look forward and there is a new world.



He kept walking.


Refreshed, John crawled back through the window.

In the Dreams photo essay.