She said, Godard said there is no love at twenty

She won’t confer an “art” status to photography, especially digital.

It is not about displaying DSLRs; she laments the loss of the developing process; the photographer’s black room.

I said to myself after she said that I think the process is lost altogether.

Clicking does not sound like constituting a process.

She said Apu’s mother is selfish. This was the movie

Sometimes, she does not remember songs she plays.

She does not recommend white bread.

She knows the anatomy and physiology of food.

Somewhere, she is not a butterfly.

Here: a butterfly

I slept with a butterfly tonight, cloyingly

there’s the drizzle of your humming,

but not a breath, only a drizzle.

The butterfly’s black and white

Its flutters winged

and you’re a drizzle

on the summer’s evening

and I slept with a butterfly,

and your wings are missing.

I moved, the butterfly flew

Its flutters winged,

And the evening was a desert.

Its breaths, magma on a giant’s skin,

Its texture, the butterfly’s black and white.

And the evening was a desert.

But it’s a cold, cold summer.

And your wings are missing.

This is Apu's mother.
This is Apu’s mother.
Butterfly, then bed, none else
Butterfly, then bed, none else