I knew you liked Björk and Qureshi (just The Black Album?) and I tried to imagine what your face would look like reading a sentence you liked because I hadn’t liked the book very much and I wanted to know this at least – the words that made you light up.

As we walked along the river, I couldn’t help looking at you and I wondered at the same time how the water looked painted – it could have been a wall. We walked all the way to your house and when I stepped in, you said, “It’s a very small house.”

C. dissolved your doubts about letting me take your pictures for my portrait series. Her excitement, her unreal blue eyes, the way she held you in the garden, the way she never forgot that I was there but it didn’t matter. You were self-conscious in a way that didn’t allow you to let go the way she did, but that’s who you were, so that when you let your hair fall into your eyes and looked up, striking a pose, I thought of how often I framed a story of myself when my picture was being taken by someone else, naively wishing that this is the story that people saw too, and watching you do this made me like you more – it was so sudden, so boyish.

In the picture you took of me – my story is I am almost not here.

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