You do not possess the capacity to mourn: absence is not a lack but a quality. In the darkroom, your head-spaces, images appear as quickly as they blanch into colour with neither motive nor morphology.
I am struck by your waxwork skin, and might be less surprised to uncover your rusted frame, skeletal and tidy. These shelves store enough heartbreak to gather a field of dust in the still air.
Sincerely.
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