ned remembers going to his uncle’s farm and feeding baby cows from a bottle when he was about four years old. maybe.
turns out there’s a question of authenticity. he’s not entirely sure if he actually remembers this or has falsified the memory through a combination of stories told and a couple of under-saturated polaroids.
“are memories allowed to be lies?”, he asked aloud.
but the dog just stared at a moth on the wall and there was no one else to respond.
so now he takes pictures with this crappy cellphone and arbitrarily documents events as they occur, taking a nap in the gray area between the genuinely memorable moments of life and those orphaned events that happen to have been photographed.