If we exist in someone's album, do we exist forever? Or at least until their house burns down?
Immortality of SortsI’m in a thousand photos, maybe more
Never mind that I’m on a corner,
looking slouchy and blowing my nose,
or half turned, mid-stride, caught out
in the haziness of tourist films
They don’t know me, I’m unrecognizable
as a spear-carrier in Ben Hur, yet there
But extras make the pictures too
and what’s Prague without people?
So there I am, in a thousand cupboard drawers,
tucked safely under the place-mats
or glorified in a treasured trip album
Some tribes believe the picture is their soul
and there I am, forgotten in an attic
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