Bound by (and to) an object that is inherently destined to obsolescence, we try to suture together the sloughed fragments of our past into our image.

It is just an apparition. Lingering in the liminal; on the threshold of renewal.

Just as this flag is dissolved, so too is the old. What is left is the (life)blood. The gesture of care.
The threads that are there for the weaving.