Saturday, August 14, 2010


Digging through the piles of history, through layers of papers and the strata of deposited files, one finds lumps of stuff joined together. They are outcrops in the confusion, in the messy masses of the hidden realm.

Sometimes, you see photographs, half-eaten by insect or worm, half-corrupted by chemical action or the weakening of age. And they are trimmed down, worn out. Eventually, stuff is cropped out. Those too are outcrops.



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