Eternity buries itself in smaller things.
How desperately I have wished for memories to be eternal, but eternity exists only insofar as it buries itself in smaller things. The photograph will exist longer than I can ever remember its being taken. Even the candle which burns exists longer than my recollection of the candle or its burning—it exists but is transmogrified.
In this way, in smaller things, it is buried. In this way, maybe, I am buried too.
— Jacqueline Winter Thomas (March 23, 1991 – April 18, 2019), “4.7.19,” heteroglossia