Shards of glass make rotten lovers

There is no refund for souvenirs of the past.

The past is a grotesque animal

When I was young, I would pretend that the raindrops on the window were having a race.  I would choose a favorite and track its progress with my finger until it disappeared, tail wriggling out of my sight like a renegade tadpole.  Usually it would be the fattest one, or the scraggliest one, on days when I felt like supporting the underdog.  Back then, entertainment was cheap.

I am thinking of doing a photo series about pain.  Specifically what pain means to different people.  Thoughts?

Such were my pictures of the dead

Fuck it all. I need to get out of here.

fenêtre ouverte dans l'âme

It all started with an open window.  Caroline's urgent voice reached me in the hallway, there was something I had to see.  That is the way we are, dropping everything at the sign of beauty.  Some rays of light, escaped through the blinds of her window.  A spontaneous photoshoot ensued.

 

After a couple of years using Wordpress, my feet have stumbled back to Blogspot yet again.  Perhaps this will be their final resting place, who knows?