In the documentation of these journals, pages were lost. The machine scanning away and cutting off the ends of photographs and pictures, barely giving space to what I refrain from calling poems, lacking the discipline of reworks or edits. These thoughts were caught in their first draft, these images at face value, and these memories incomplete. Echoes of how we walk through this Earth, stepping on leaves and skipping stones, bound by twine. Perhaps the greatest moments of contemplation are when I watch the sun in your eyes and your beauties are caught in a loop, mirroring divinity back and forth, Gaia and you. I hold onto the purples and blues, repeating the confession: "I love you."