All the antique shops in New York sell antique photographs, tossed loosely in an antique tin. These are the smallest histories, discarded paper pieces of a stranger's heart. Sharp sepia faces no one remembers, whispering memories no one can hear. They break my heart. Perhaps one day, when your own familiar face takes on the exact shape and shadow of a stranger's, you too will find yourself reflected in the rusty tin heart of an antique box waiting to be recognized. We walk blindly, not realizing that these small histories are printed prophecies of a single truth.
Eventually everything is forgotten.