20.12.05 - 8:22 p.m.

A collection of slides left in projectors given to thrift shops. Soldiers’ funerals. Pet geese. An Alice Cooper concert. Niagara Falls. Slow dancing. The street where President Kennedy was assassinated. The cake at someone’s Bar Mitzvah. Girls on horseback, no saddles. Sometimes I imagine that I might die of an aneurism, fall over dead in my bathroom where the walls are smooth and white enough for a slideshow and someone will follow the scent of my decomposition, wind up in that bathroom, looking at the last thing I looked at. Maybe it will be the soldier’s sunken face and they’ll think that’s too sad, change it to the dancing couple before they call for help, before they say I found her, she’s in here, in the bathroom.

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the project museum

the revolution will be catalogued

this american life

the library of congress

i used to believe







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