It is falling apart, and unlike many other things that fall apart it is actually coming loose bit by bit—becoming separated from itself—and falling from the image plane where it was once fixed. Tiny flakes of darkened or lustrous silver halide pirouette, newly freed from the fixity of representation; they are now able to be themselves. And perhaps the image becomes truer too: this decay at the edges bringing to light the decay at the center.

They flake and fall away and some don't make it to the ground, they become dust and settle as such in a room, on a ledge, or in a corner mingling with other bits that are fallen. In the swoop of a moving body they're thrust into the air and in the daylight coming through the window they fleck white, they make the middle distance shimmer, suddenly coming into focus.

It won't be long before that's it: this momentary spasm of light in the middle distance. With each touch more is lost: oblivion catalyzed by the desire to remember, like the mind loosed from a dream.