Brooklyn.

Portland, Oregon

Chinatown, Manhattan.

Melbourne.

Melbourne, Australia. Late June; the dead of winter.

Madame Tussaud's.

Madame Tussaud's.

Madame Tussaud's.

Studio, Madame Tussaud's, 42nd Street, New York, New York. Amy works in a quiet room a few feet away from the galleries (favorite sign: "POPULAR CULTURE THIS WAY"), touching up worn flesh, reattaching severed thumbs, and restyling tourist-mussed hair.

Chelsea.

Crown Heights.

Greenpoint, Brooklyn, New York. Lightsaber traces.

Crown Heights. I've must have looked out of this window in my hallway a hundred times before noticing the hand prints in the dust. I'm still not sure whether they're mine; they even look a little like paw prints.

Crown Heights.

Kingston Avenue subway station, Crown Heights. Signifying nothing.

Stourbridge Common, Cambridge, England, around Christmas. Almost night, cold and misty, the river glassy and black. A muted roar drifts across the fields from the floodlit stadium. People and dogs emerge from the gloom, barrel past, then vanish.

Crown Heights, Brooklyn, New York, a recent morning. Landings; perhaps, along with waiting rooms and hotel lobbies, the archetypes of liminal space. I hover here daily on my way in and out of the apartment, checking, remembering, fumbling with keys, or just pausing for no particular reason.

On the beach in Brighton, England, around Christmas.

East Village, New York, New York, Saturday afternoon.

Kacy's friend Kacey's house, New Orleans, Louisiana, a few weeks ago. I think we were (very, very gradually) getting ready to go out to a parade, watching E. Dills ham it up on the guitar, soaking up wine dregs. The inconsistencies of the window made me think of that factoid (is it true?) about panes of glass remaining forever liquid, always very slowly on the move, dripping imperceptibly down and out of their frames.