Two’s a couple. Three means I need four.
There is something tragic about finding compromising images of strangers. I have to take them home with me, even though I don’t really want them around – I have enough photographs of people I know. But how could I just leave them there? That hopeful young girl in a yellow bikini, languishing in a moldy cardboard box nestled between all the Nazi wedding portraits, that little boy in a gingham shirt. I found him on top of a stack of encyclopedias, next to a door where dogs pee. And what kind of monster throws their kid’s school picture out anyway?