Time can be comforting, or it can be cruel. Mathematics tells us that when you are over the hill, you don't really pick up speed—but the fractions change.
When you walk the streets every morning making pictures, the fractions become even smaller. Depending on your settings and the light, it can take fractions of a second to make a picture. A fraction of a fraction of a day, of a year, of a life.
Sometimes, you see the same people every morning, for even ten years or more. You chat, or not. But you acknowledge each other. You are familiar. Then one day the groundskeeper in the park tells you that a person was found dead, in a puddle, in an alley, in the French Quarter on Christmas morning, and it is that person with whom you were familiar. However loosely, you felt like he was part of your tribe. He was a fraction of your life. He was a part of you, he lived on the street for years, and then he died in a dirty alley, alone. In a fraction of a second, a heartbeat, it was over for him. That's how it is.
Rest In Peace, Stanford. No more troubled mind.
Stanford, pacing the levee
New Orleans, LA
2016
Photo and storyline
Christopher Bryson...
