I mean, that’s fine.

Those qualities of a news photograph unique to its subject having been run over by a bus. But no, this guy appears to be fine. Doing well, even.

Scenes from the 1978 film “Ice Castles.” Ice Castles “is the story of Alexis, a young figure skater, and her rise and fall from super stardom. Tragedy strikes when, following a freak accident, Lexie loses her sight, leaving her to hide away in the privacy of her own despair.”

All these listings, how can a man be made to choose? This is woman’s work. Humiliating.

“I was safe.” “No, I tagged you.” “Nuh-uh.”

Seventy-five cents at the little store downstairs, comes in several pleasing varieties. This one tastes like molasses and Darjeeling tea mixed together. It’s quite good.

A stadium show, some dumb thing your dad drags you to. At the fairgrounds, with boring bands and drunk parents who smell like hot dog plastic. Smokers on lawn chairs, dicks, beater-uppers. Still, that match-head air, the stupid night, the distant notion that you’ll find under these shitty stars a Sally Kimball to your Encyclopedia Brown.

A dull day in the upbringing of a crime-fighting rock band.

On his feet, today. Gripping, bravura. Really, really fantastic, this maniac.

The contended demeanor of one who has dedicated their life to revenge, revenge, revenge.

The professor and the pillowcase.

Sorry, Cassandra.

Have a seat and enjoy this wordless intrigue.