I looked at the photos and considered the transient nature of everything, how nothing stands against time. It's all temporal--occupation, possessions, family. Easy come, easy go, and it always goes shrinking. But every thing passing leaves a sort of mark on the next coming.
I've taken to jotting quick poems in magazine margins lately. Sometimes I catch the essence of something, other times I whiff. Either way, it's a good exercise, I think. There is something about etching in stone, or in this case in Sharpie. It's permanence requires a bit more deliberate stroke.