I used to carry Sophie Calle’s Exquisite Pain, wrapped in a fat quarter of fabric, inside my coat. I did that for a long time. I would get tired from walking and find a diner where the coffee was under a dollar. Sitting at the bar, wiping down the counter first, I would lay the book down in front of me. I knew all the pictures, sometimes I would not even open the book but just run my fingers down the red gilt edge of the pages while the coffee cooled. Her photograph of the red telephone on the bed would be waiting, whether I looked at it or not. It was there, and had always been there waiting, for Sophie and for me too. The mark of a moment that exists before arriving at it. All the consecutive slabs of concrete that I would walk up and down and sometimes double back on allowed for the movement that was the counting down. The waiting for a picture I would take, for the inevitable something.