I�m going to borrow, paraphrase, a few lines from �Impossible to Tell� to describe this photograph.

In spring, the Bougainvillea leaves, in the gutter, the secret courtesy that courses like ichor through the old form of the rude, full-scale joke, that is your life, impossible to tell in writing.

I revamped my webpage to show only a few pictures. I�ve been told that there were too many to view. This way there are just a handful of my favorites, those that I think pass a certain arbitrary grade.

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