You can’t hear it.

I know you can see it, but you can’t hear it and that is the problem. You’ve seen it before. Heard the story before, but perhaps you never stood in this exact place and heard what this splice of the world had in store for you.

I can’t forget. By my lapels this place grabbed me. Pulled me in close, screaming at me with a power that prickled as rivulets of sweat down my torso. The weak link in this place was me. Fragile. An entire organism waiting for rot to begin. Stung, burned, drenched and powerless against what happens when you feel something pure.

Simple. Expose for the shadow and let the beauty of film shine. The great beast has to be sectioned, but the highlights will glow, and they begin the moment the metal box lowers.

A haunting. Hundreds of images before but this, but this one stays with me from the moment it is made. Seven hours downriver. Bus. Plane. Taxi. Bus. Plane. Taxi. And it’s there the entire way. An itch I can’t scratch. A reminder perhaps.

But I haven’t done anything about it. Nothing. A collapse. “Nobody cares.” “What can I do?” Apparently very, very little.

But the noise. Ya, it isn’t possible until you are there and can’t block it out. The sound of the saw. Relentless. Unquenchable. But what fingers sharpen the blade?

In part yours. Mine. Who will stop us now?