It began life as a report yet ended up like the work itself—a conflicted mess. Truth seemed unnecessary somehow. All it took was the strip of film to shuffle the sequence of events. A contact sheet was the same. It was impossible to tell what happened where and when the longer film was left undeveloped. So what gives, when something real was just as difficult to fathom? With stories, the possibility that knowing what the hell was going on was tantamount to ignorance, resilient to the reality of fact and certainty. Images were restless, almost immortal. But even JPEGs die eventually.