Everything seems to be a fragment of something else, a-part-of and yet complete. For example, I may have read a book and yet remember only some small phrase ... and it is enough to complete the meaning or universe of that book for me.
Or maybe it's a half-erased graffito on a men's room wall: All it says is "or else" or "cotton balls" and what preceded or followed what is legible is now missing or smudged.
Usually, it is detail heaped on detail that makes a convincing story or thought. But after a while, fragments are enough ... the picture will paint itself if I quit picking up paint brushes.
And the fragments are fun, evocative, or confounding -- and often-times far more interesting than the larger context in which they might fit.
Think of it: Square bubbles; loving scars; or maybe just petite peas.
Fragments of smell, fragments of sight, fragments of hearing, fragments of taste, fragments of emotion, fragments of thought ... and somehow it's enough: The symphony's fragment notes become the symphony, which once again is a fragment.