broken poems
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That hair ends up, who knows how, on the floodlight lens, distracting violently the public from the story. Suddenly, that imperfection has more fascination that the movie itself. Equally suddenly, it disappears. And for a moment, we miss it.

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Quarterly newsletter (no spam!) from photography activities, self publishing adventures, darkroom activities and chances for meeting. Just a friendly way to be in touch more directly compared to a social media world.
Would love you to join...