I found a wad of folded up photographs on the ground while walking home. They were fairly aged, as though someone had been carying them around a long time in every kind of weather, really cherishing them and what they stood for.
My best friend accidentally booked us rooms at the wrong motel the night of her wedding. This was the first thing I saw, when closing the door.
The faint writing at the bottom of this photo says: “Wish I could have killed him.” I wonder who was the person who had this murderous thought. Is it one of these men, or the photographer? Did the writer want to kill the men or perhaps the pack horse? I guess we will never know.