What a strange vintage we are. Constantly needing to photograph each thing, each moment. What other species demands to self archive everything? The same information, experiences, places visually captured over and over again.
What do we expect to learn from it; from taking a picture of it all?
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What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags like a heavy load. Or does it explode?
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