This is a picture I did not take

of a man wearing a t-shirt, no matter how strange or disjointed his particular t-shirt was, even if the man was seen in perfect focus through the viewfinder of a camera and my index finger was on the shutter, especially if the man was standing in extraordinarily strong reflected light inside a train station, and he was walking through a pure gold column of it with an utterly blank look on his face and his red t-shirt said, "This Is My Costume"; neither is it a picture of a teenage girl having a meltdown on a bus platform in the middle of Market St., standing between her parents who were clearly from out of town (with their matching dayglow Alcatraz ballcaps), and she stood there, having her meltdown on one of the year's hottest days, perfectly framed between her dayglow parents, in her butter-colored shirt with its cartoonish illustration of a giant hot dog and the words "I Love Weiners".