He, who happened to accidentally record the first human figure with his makeshift camera or so goes the history of photography. In the either/or years of 1838/1839, a man had his shoes shined on the bustling Boulevard du Temple of Paris. His stationary figure was left upon a silver-coated sheet of copper bathed in fumes of mercury, as the daytime crowds came and went without a trace.

Leave it to Light and Time to have these kinds of tricks up their sleeves.

The poet presides over Language, ruling firmly/loosely under the auspices of rhythm and rhyme. Yet I am no poet. Language is nothing but a certain ordering of marks and meaning is made by how these marks are arranged. Poetry is one such way of arranging. Language, a gathering of what tends apart. Words fray and rub off of each other's phonetics and have been placed closer than they practically should, making the tongue twist.

My question then was, "When language slips on itself, what is recorded?"

Perhaps Light and Time have a poetic equivalent of the man who stays still long enough to leave a mark.