She No Longer Believed In Talk. It

She Didn't Even Have To Smile, And She Rarely Did Outside Her House--it Was The Eyes, Her Dancer's Carriage, The Way She Seemed To Deliberate Over The Smallest Movement Of Her Body.

I Loved The Way The Burned-out Flashcubes Of The Kodak Instamatic Marked A Moment That Had Passed, One That Would Now Be Gone Forever Except For A Picture.

She Liked To Imagine That When She Passed The World Looked After Her, But She Also Knew How Anonymous She Was.

Once Released From Life, Having Lost It In Such Violence, I Couldn’t Calculate My Steps. I Didn’t Have Time For Contemplation. In Violence It Is The Getting Out That You Concentrate On. When You Begin To Go Over The Edge, Life Receding From You As A Boat Recedes Inevitably From The Shore, You Hold On To Death Tightly, Like A Rope That Will Transport You, And You Swing Out On It, Hoping To Land Away From Where You Are.

I Had Rescued The Moment By Using My Camera And In That Way Had Found How To Stop Time And Hold It. No One Could Take That Image Away From Me Because I Owned It.