As I examine the shark which is a balloon in the state of being so inflated as to not be, I am ambushed by absurdity. Somehwere geographically below it is a photograph of what appears to be intended to be understood as a monochromatic and incomplete photographer. Photographs are strange.
I stopped being interested in taking photographs when I realized that they don’t really exist; by which I mean that their existence is a negation of the reality which I pretend that they pretend to.
This is me by the Eiffel Tower,
And here again in Rome;
These are my friends: Sam and Jim;
This is at my home.
Your life condensed into a show
Of snaps of what I’ve seen.
I can’t remember what lay to
The right of that one scene.
I love my photo album,
It reminds me of the time
You might one day remember when
My life was never mine.
I think that the human is getting bored of typing on your keyboard, which is a relief because I’m getting bored of reading about something which means nothing at all to the writer.