Leafing through old photography books,

reading interviews with all the eyes I admire,

I see these slices:

of cities, of streets, of leftovers (of all kinds).

The fabric of the city as Frankstein,

all eyes,

all hands,

piercing through it,

safe keeping (it).

To me, it seems, as always, the bits & pieces of that weird foreign land I have decided to call photographic.

A world that exists.

When it doesn’t, though.