Glare through the windshield as if heat had ruined the city and the windshield, congealing them in the buttery amber of dirty oil. Although you can hardly see the silhouettes riding back and forth across your vision, you expect photography might provide some record of visual textures, if never actual events, actual insides. Certainly somebody must have some sort of document, some sort of figuration. Some such fluid flesh. Go poetry! Go afternoon!

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