It’s late and I’m in the darkroom printing the image I made of you.
Sazerac in hand I realize there’s an image I make of you in my mind.
I think about how we all do that to each other everyday.
It occurs to me the we cannot even know ourselves without bias.
Maybe the collective unconscious universe can know us truly.
Here now finding you in that flawed old emulsion, monochrome in two dimensions, frozen at one beautiful moment in time, distorted by the light passing through the moving rinse water,
I think I might like to fail to know you.