I cut out windows and doors, from your beautiful coffee table book on great western architecture, or someone's beloved mid century design, or that history textbook she will need to finally crack open before the final exam. It doesn't matter. I don't care whose it is. I need only three or four pages where the photos stack together, where a door overlaps a set of teeth or somebody else's bricks. The coliseum with its archways carefully sliced and plucked is now like lace lying atop the face of some expert archaeologist, whose eyes are now portholes to the famous ruins that are shaped by a sky that is carving out its own extremities. When you notice one day, the altered state of your libraries, you cannot be angry long. As you look for what is missing, you will of course see how much is there, the wrinkles around the eyes, just like yours, the number of dots around paisleys, the milk carton near the gutter.