It was an icy morning, one of those where you want to stay in bed until the sunlight bothers you so much that you can’t help but get up.
I looked around me, contemplating the framed photographs on my bedroom walls. There were maybe a hundred, or maybe more: I had lost count. They were all framed: white, black blue... made out of wood, brass, silver... in an effort to make each one unique, different from the rest. Each one of those photos was a memory, or at least had tried to be, a moment, an image of the present turned into the past in an instant.
I don’t know what to call it, maybe an obsession, but I had a need for it: to immortalise people, to keep their memory alive so that in time someone could see them and know what they had done. But it was only an illusion.