Is it a wonder when certain thoughts cross our minds, insert themselves into the spaces reserved for other things, that we should suddenly find ourselves yearning, almost desperate for quiet? The history of ourselves, as it comes into view, can unravel the web of beliefs – not lies exactly but patterns, a tapestry for the world to see. Each thread is essential to the fabric, fingered like a rosary bead, counted like the knots of a quipu. Is it a wonder you begin to worry? Thinking perhaps you are not who you thought, that from here forward any notion of yourself must contain a seed of doubt.