In Lieu of a Voyeur

This is what I look like after crying for two days, two weeks ago exactly:

And here's a small piece of me; pieces are all I have given:

People who share a lot find safety in their sharing; I find safety in the language used, not the story.

The story is always nonsense, even if it's true, especially mine. (Yours can be whatever you want it to be.)

Then again, tendencies (like beliefs) are no more than "a broken vase, glass; a broken body, parts," he said last night, a tiramisu between us. When you tear the world into a thousand minor pieces, it's impossible to distinguish where you begin and the world ends. 

But tear is all we can do! For instance, my hand in the furnace of these leaves:

Last Wednesday I went to the park. I was sitting on the ground holding a baby when a young girl came to me with her head bent and whispered, "Will you watch me roll down the hill?" She pointed at the hill. Of course I would, I would love to watch you roll down the hill. "Will the baby watch me?" She did not look at the baby, only further bent her head. Yes of course the baby would watch her. 

And as she stepped away, she paused, touched the baby on top of the head and said, "Watch me, baby."

The girl, the hill, the rolling:

The baby, the not watching:

I know people who save my photos/files for the sole purpose of Proof. The proof varies, no doubt, but I have been told (by more than one person) that the way I title my photos tells a tale. Now, because I know this, I title photos falsely: misnomers, misleaders, doodles, accusations and false proclamations. 

It's a disgusting, shameful sort of fun I have at my own expense now.
The ferocious shadow puppets I continue to build are invisible to everyone but me:

Don't they say something about water and teaspoons?
What if there is no water and there are no teaspoons?