Midway down the spiral of my years

I woke in a screeching neon alley—

ensnared in the everything,

nerves fried,

heart howling—

it was the remnants that held me.

This zine collects those fragments —

screenshots, scanned photographs, iChat logs, saved MySpace images,

digital sketches, lost emails, metadata ghosts —

and

lets

them

breathe.

A quiet reckoning with an archive

that wasn’t meant to exist.

This is a fragmentary portrait,

an excavation through forty years

of looking and being.

Built from found images,

journal entries,

failed passwords,

digital debris,

and half-saved drafts—

not a memoir,

but a mined terrain.

A record of how the personal archive mutates

across platforms, devices, and memory.

These images weren’t curated—

they were recovered.

This isn’t nostalgia.

It’s archaeology.

Now, the mess is the message.

Nothing is in chronological order.

Some of it never happened.