Late this afternoon, nested in the middle of the neighborhood, we found a one-acre cemetery that dates back to 1845. Dry, spindly trees fragment the light that strikes the stones. An informal description on the internet surmises about 100 people are buried there, with only half the gravestones still in place. Some of the markers are broken, illegible. It's a family cemetery where people might engrave a stone 'Aunt Jane' with an expectation that people will know who Aunt Jane was, and who the niece or nephew was that procured the stone. But, like with Twitter, we must now recreate their stories from a few syllables, a date.

The photo above, which I took earlier in the day, contrasts with the cemetery. It's a fair depiction of how life can present itself in this century, a fractured kaleidoscope of imagery, noise, distraction, opportunity, brand names, and pavement; beauty in churning chaos.

Perhaps a mile away, the cemetery sits, earthy, not clamoring for attention.