Boxed eggs and tissue papers.

It seems harder to document family members for the sake of art. There is an apparent distance, the need to draw the line between fiction and real memories. The line between someone attempting to make art and being a grandson. I'm never the expert in 5 minutes human relationships, the years of inert awkwardness still drowns in me. It's a cynical dread.

Somehow it's always easier in daydreams.