[More book.]

Time plays tricks on us.

Vague, the meanings that trickle in. I stare in the window, understanding that everyone is selling something. And a lot of us do better at it not actually realizing that little tidbit of existentialism. There are photos of people on display in front of me, of individuals decked out in robes and mortarboards, wearing clean dark suits and bright ties, groups of people who must be related to each other in some how and feinting some kind of sterile smile, women in white white wedding dresses, singled out relatives in front of subdued velvet purple backdrops. Yes, a photographer’s window. He’s selling you memories that he’s concocted, of scenes that would never have happened without that he had set them up. Arranged a bit of your life for you, in simulated perfection. One of the many people we pay to lie to us.