i'm remembering the wooden headboard of my bed when i was eight or nine. i looked at it so intently i went into it like a landscape. i wish i could see it now. i wonder how i would see it. would it be the same, would i go into the same landscape, or would it be an echo of a pattern that was only visible by the child that i was then. yet remembering i'm still the same person i was as a child as i think of that headboard that may still exist, or may have gone back to earth, with the specific pattern of my child gaze embedded, dissolving in humus now.