![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNLkl5jK5Kyfrvqb3Wc7w35ZdTonY7BsRuTepbaE835qk5br6ySfvv3aE1eQfr6YohHxWYgLXVhAa4Rm38p6CwCYOimo6vw1sViZRucqFOaRWXW74XkaqN0BIHs5aZSqZhTcqt/s320/Daguerreotype_Daguerre_Atelier_1837.jpg)
Louis Daguerre, Plaster casts, Société française de photographie, 1837
Ahead, approaching, some stranger comes walking, loose-limbed and arms swinging wide— that silhouette, shadow-play brushing a scuffle, a soft shoe, a memory. Familiar, unfamiliar, the stride—they grow taller, elongate, and I catch myself, my self. It’s me, it’s my shadow blocking the light, as liquid and dark as ink from the well. My harbinger twin, spilling stories I can’t yet tell.