Photographs are time machines to the past. Instant moments in time reflecting back to current eyes.
A street scene of Boston is hung on my wall a moment sliced out of time from 1893.
Trolley cars side by side waggling down the street. Ladies clothed from the sky to the ground bustling around town. The gents of the day striding along suited with the clicking of their canes. Horses pulling carriages delivering produce, moving people here and there while leaving their gifts all around.
Trees in the park that is still there today, leaving shadow memories on the ground.
Each and every person in the scene has a story to tell, they each lived their lives to the tune of the day.
Each started that day, one day in their lives, they loved, they laughed, they cried and they cheered at the game. Children in the park running playing just the same.
All gone now, just a moment long past.
Little knowing this moment of their existence would be captured to be hung on my wall as a testament to their moment in time.
Looking around for a loop of light, a captive throws out his trove of litter and ask for a right to be killed. This was question hour of your conscience. Who would now act as on executioner? Anybody who has
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