Jason Rosenthal, August 26, 2006. Photo by Sid Branca.

In the midst of a slog of archival narcissism, the digging through of digital boxes, the unexpected pinch of the long thin twisting needle of loss up in my guts. the losses of time, the losses of death. to come across a pile of poorly-lit pixels, spelling out your face. The face that I knew, years before your death. 

This is, I suppose, a reason for photographs; a site for eternal revisiting when the site itself becomes one day barred to entry. Starved of the sight, we cling to the contracts we’ve signed our memories to. I am so afraid of forgetting what you looked like. 

Remember, remember. Your skin was soft, and you were kind, and you liked crude jokes and certain voices. This is what you looked like, and may the sound of your quiet voice speaking my name be one of the last tapes to be rewritten. 

smallerosions:

“This could be our last night on earth,” he said. “I thought I’d wear a tie.”

sometimes i am dicking around in fauxtoshop late at night for no reason and make something that feels like it’s from a comic I wish existed.