Weighted and buoyed by the preciousness of moments. They, of the unphotographable ilk. Things real and felt but not alive, flashes of memories, sensations, scents wafting, light refracting, sounds, voices, laughter.

The potent yearning for them to manifest, a gilded leaf in my palm, a fil-um scrolling, before they are lost to time and my own failings.

Like this week ago walk. Cold and soggy with mist on my nose. Hands chilled in their woolly wrappings. Shoes sloshing from overgrown puddles and a moment of inattention.

The price I dutifully pay for joy. For being alive. For love.