the manner in which certain things catch the eye is peculiar to me. there is a romance in the stillness of things left behind after living moving beings leave the picture. they exist in a state of potential, or (momentarily) expired usefulness. the pulse of activity remains in the air, blanketing the objects with a magnetic narrative. and in the romance of it all, i am a ghost. i, a happenstance voyeur, penetrating the here and the now and the you-don't-have-to-be-here-but-you-don't-have-to-go