How odd that I feel so much absence when he was almost never present. His insipid photographs hang on the walls, but they are falling. Images of abandoned suitcases in dusty lobby’s are all he left me, and these faded and cracking images are falling off the walls. The walls are also cracked, they have always been cracked. When he half hung up the revealing self-portraits, neither of us knew that he would abandon our nascent beauty before the photographs would fall to the ground and shatter the glass, which was old and inexpensively made. It all feels extravagantly expensive to me, the whole experience feels far to expensive. All that remains is my betrayed and abandoned worn out suitcase, in a faded lobby of a no longer frequented hotel, in a deserted alley on a street that does not exist, and to which people wander onto, mistakenly, when they are deeply mourning.