This is a picture I did not take
of a man wearing a t-shirt, no matter how strange or disjointed his
particular t-shirt was, even if the man was seen in perfect focus through
the viewfinder of a camera and my index finger was on the shutter,
especially if the man was standing in extraordinarily strong reflected
light inside a train station, and he was walking through a pure gold
column of it with an utterly blank look on his face and his red t-shirt
said, "This Is My Costume"; neither is it a picture of a teenage girl
having a meltdown on a bus platform in the middle of Market St., standing
between her parents who were clearly from out of town (with their matching
dayglow Alcatraz ballcaps), and she stood there, having her meltdown on
one of the year's hottest days, perfectly framed between her dayglow
parents, in her butter-colored shirt with its cartoonish illustration of a
giant hot dog and the words "I Love Weiners".