It's Evening, One Of Those

In The First World War, People Would Be Receiving Letters From Loved Ones Who Had Been Dead For Weeks, And They Would Not Know Until That Black-bordered Telegram Arrived. I Remember, Of Course, When It Was Letters Only, Or The Telephone, And You Did Not Make Expensive Long-distance Calls Unless It Was, "come Home To The Funeral," Or The Like.

I Tend To Feel If People Say They're Going To Do Something, They Will, If Given The Chance.

Is Anything Wrong, Dear? The Old Joke Went. No, Why? You Moved. Just Don't Move.

The Future Of Narrative? Built In, Part Of The Human Template. Not Going Away.

The Act Of Making A Photograph Is Less A Question Of What Is Being Looked At Than How.