What it means to carry a camerais to speak out of the emptyframe seeing God, Sky, Road, her returnand faith in the perfection of deserts.To picture the quiet man's body in the city.This is what it means to love, to loiter
In forbidden zones, allowing the girl to loiterthere with you, perhaps, taking your cameraaway at intervals and sending you into the cityalone. Sometimes we need to come home emptyhanded; sick with strange desertsin mind we will leave and return
With our long memory of the city,its sights and sounds to repeat and returnto the missing man in the room, his emptychair. In his cool bed we loiterin the dark, patient with the cameraand every sense recalling other deserts,
Other times like this when the idea of desertsconfounded us, when we dreamt the citywas made of sand, tugged that cameradown around his neck, no promise of return,but something of you, hopeful, seemed to loiterin the mind of the street, the empty
Bed to go back to, your emptyroom a perfect void like his deserts,the window open where you loiterlike a vagrant in your own apartment, the cityloose with lights, the slow lights of return.You see he is unpacking the camera,
Cradling the camera, testing the empty weight of its images, tiny doors of return, hercold pictures of city, moon, desert.
