Unlike a written diary where the sequence of pages preserves a chronology and each word is a deliberate, pointed choice I make – my otic diaries are slippery. Like a myriorama, the pieces might be arranged in countless sequences – each version telling a story of my year no more accurately than another.

Recordings of these sounds I’ve heard, these places where I’ve listened, need little from me now. So after some deliberation about how to craft a sequence most pleasing to the ear or to the eye, or choosing the one most faithful to a timeline, or how to will a narrative shape into being, I opted to move quickly and drag the small unnamed files into place with little thinking.