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TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER

an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
& other curiosities :: elsewhere :: profile


09.21.04, tuesday night

Years or months or even days later, a photograph is no longer what my camera, that clever little monster, had snatched from the crossroads of time and space.

The photograph is now a tombstone, indelibly inscribed with the image of a subject or relationship that has disintegrated, vanished, or died, forever beyond my ability to recover its pulse.




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