A truck vanished.
Everything gone.
Two thousand miles behind me. A new city. Nothing in my hands.
They found the truck.
What was left wasn’t mine. Garbage.
Other people’s mess.
Except for a story. Hemingway.
A Moveable Feast.
That was the beginning.
Not of a collection.
Not of a project.
Of a chain.
Objects don’t end up with us by accident.
Some want to keep moving.
Some carry a story they haven’t finished telling.
That’s what this is.
A story in motion. A relay of memory.
I’ll trade this story for another.
A feast meant to be moved.
Not kept. Not claimed.
Just carried.