Rusted walls, broken windows, rainbow colors
streak messages of existence: “iLove,” “Nakd,” “Lo$t.”
Chosen monikers, nametags for souls wandering in darkness.

I want to photograph the old Pacific Rail Road cars
as they sit on dead tracks. I wish to document
things made by men who are dead, and messages

by those (maybe) still living. I approach. A man sleeping
beneath the orange car stirs. I back away and climb the stairs
of the forgotten caboose, rotting in the night.

My flash illuminates the graffiti, the vandalism,
but the moon casts a much brighter light.
I feel like my photos are some kind of lie:

they capture only one moment,
but never the passing of time.

Jonathan Stone