We make to ourselves pictures of facts. The picture is a model of reality
I prefer a taken to a made photograph.
In the blur of the photograph, time leaves its gleaming, snail-like track.
Everyone in California is from somewhere else.
Writes have an island, a center of refuge, within themselves. It is the mind's anchorage, the soul's Great Good Place.
The camera eye is the one in the middle of our forehead, combining how we see with what there is to be seen.