for months after my father passed away nearly three years ago to the date, i've had re-curring dreams of meeting him at the lip of the sea in long island where i was born. it is always a night sea, the moon reflecting on the dark water in snaky silver slivers. we stand at this cusp together, our shoulders slightly grazing each other as they did that last time i saw him. he looks out into that inky abyss as i look up at him forlornly, pleadingly. even in the dream i know he is not real, that we are not really there, but the little child folded up inside me like origami wants to pull him away from that terribly beautiful edge.
something about these images by dylan shaw reminds me of these feverish, lucid dreams. so strange and sad.