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All this time I thought I was waiting, I was creating an archive. I was remembering.

The impulse to remember, to collect, to archive, to curate—it felt like it arose from something deadening, a vestige. Sometimes all I see are all these vestiges, locked away in museums. The freedom, the overflowing gardens, the revolutions—they all feel like vestiges now.

But what of museums? Can they be retrieved and reclaimed? Their histories are tainted. In museums we try to understand things, so we nail them to thin paper, cover them in glass, force them to stand still long enough to see, the epistemic bleeding into the metaphysical, the impulse to conquer knowledge conquers all. But is everything lost? Can we curate something alive, give it presence, space, and flight?

More importantly, can we restore? Can we commit to encountering, being encountered by goodness, beauty, community, hope? Can we find it in between the vestiges, vestiges, all these vestiges?

But I was not only waiting. I was creating space and time for all this gathering, recollecting, collecting again. After all, there is an agency to letting things slip, an agency to remembering, re-remembering, forcing stories into collective vision. Neutrality was always a myth.

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