Click Photo Quotes

Time doesn’t work like photos. Click, and it stays still. Blink, and it leaps forward.

You may claim no affiliation with them, but perhaps some have crossed your path.And perhaps you'd like to help us find them." "Oh,sure.You killed my mother. You can imagine I'm dying to help you out." Thomas manages to ignore me again. He glances at the first photo projected on the wall. "Know this person?" I shake my head. "Never seen him before." Thomas clicks the remote. Another photo pops up. "How about this one?" "Nope." Another photo. "How about this?" "Nope." Yet another stranger pops up on the wall. "Seen this girl before?" "Never seen her in my life." More unfamiliar faces. Thomas goes through them without blinking an eye or questioning my responses. What a stupid puppet of the state. I watch him as we continue, wishing I weren't chained so I could beat this man to the ground.

A selfie has more face and fewer feelings.

When I was in school, I wanted to be W. Eugene Smith. He was a legendary staffer at Life, a consummate photojournalist, and an architect of the photo essay. He was also kinda crazy. That was obvious when he came to lecture at Syracuse University and put a glass of milk and a glass of vodka on the lectern. Both were gone at the end of the talk. He was taking questions and I was in the front row, hanging on every word. Mr. Smith, is the only good light available light?” came the question. He leaned into the microphone. “Yes,” he baritoned, and paused. A shudder ran through all of us. That was it! No more flash! God’s light or nothing! But then he leaned back into the mic, “By that, I mean, any &*%%@$ light that’s available.” Point taken.

But maybe every life looked wonderful if all you saw was the photo albums. People always obediently smiled and tilted their heads when a camera was put in front of them. Perhaps seconds after the shutter clicked, she and Nick sprang apart, avoiding each other’s eyes, their smiles replaced by snarls. She

I have a strong aversion to Twitter, and yet there is a social obligation that forces me to pop in and spy on celebrities now and then. I don’t get Twitter. It’s impossible to follow conversation threads, and it’s too easy to spend hours and hours clicking on random names, and the next thing you know, you've become infatuated with Tweet photos from the Kardashians.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by Facebook, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through photo slideshows at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connections of their youth through the machinery of night, who clicking and poking and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural brightness of tiny screens floating across the tops of cities contemplating likes, who bared their brains to the network and saw who got pregnant and who got fat and who’s living the life best lived by posting Instagrams of themselves staggering on tenement roofs illuminated, who passed through newly cropped profile pics with radiant cool eyes obsessing over whose ex’s new lover is the best looking ex-lover’s lover, who breaking their backs falling out of ergonomic chairs while shouting into the icy streets, Everybody look how clever I am, Look how much fun I am having, Look at this amazing party I went to, Look at how well-liked I am, Look at my effortless carefully constructed casual desperate thrown together fun, Everybody look, This is fun, Look, Look, I swear to God I am having so much fun.

I liked it better when you couldn’t be so sure. When terrifying rumors were distant enough to be a UFO at the bottom of Loch Ness. When the horribly compelling train-wreck tragedies of less fortunate people’s lives were only as real as you let them be. Just a cover of a magazine, a black-and-white photo on some late-night commercial for a charity. Now confirmation is just a mouse click away.

No one thinks about who takes the photos. They just click and add that dildo to their cart.

Why did you stop?” Because time doesn’t work like photos. Click, and it stays still. Blink, and it leaps forward.

I click through her photos.

There’s no context, just the illusion that you’re showing a snapshot of a life, but life isn’t snapshots, it’s fluid. So photos are like fictions. I loved that about them. Everyone thinks photography is truth, but it’s just a very convincing lie.” “Why did you stop?” Because time doesn’t work like photos. Click, and it stays still. Blink, and it leaps forward.

And I don’t know what compels me to do it, what gives me the nerve—whether it’s because I’m still riding the adrenaline high of having just written an essay that I know is really good, or because the persistent heat has subdued the impulse-control section of my brain, or because I want to startle that smug smile off his face—but just when he’s about to take the photo, I stand up tall on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. Click.

In the midst of this imagining, I heard, out from nowhere, the distant sound of sleigh bells. I was going crazy. But there, right in front of me, across the street, was a horse – chestnut, with white spots – trotting down the street. It trotted long purposefully, cheerfully, unhurried, down Broadway. Holding my breath, I managed to find my phone and snap a photo before it disappeared from sight…. I uploaded the photo I just took. I added a caption: If a horse rides through Times Square and no one is there to see it, did it actually happen? If New York is breaking down and no one documents it, is it actually happening? I clicked Publish.

Photo album, I’m in it somewhere, successive incarnations of me preserved and flattened like flowers pressed in dictionaries; that was the other book she kept, the leather album, a logbook like the diaries. I used to hate standing still, waiting for the click.

After we've been dancing awhile and need a breather, we walk off the dance floor. I whip out my cell and say, "Pose for me." The first picture I take is of him trying to pose like a cool bad boy. It makes me laugh. I take another one before he can strike a pose this time. "Let's take one of the both of us," he says, pulling me close. I press my cheek against his while he takes my cell and puts it as far away as he can reach, then freezes this perfect moment with a click. After the picture is taken, he pulls me into his arms and kisses me.

Sometimes, late at night, when I find myself clicking through photos of the alumni events I didn’t attend, I’ll pull out my old coffee-stained copy of Still Life with Woodpecker and blink at the last line: It’s never too late to have a happy childhood. And perhaps safer if it isn’t your own.

Click. Everyone briefly gathered and posed and smiling at their future selves. Beaches and cathedrals, bumper cars and birthday parties, glasses raised around a dining table. Each picture a little pause between events. No tantrums, no illness, no bad news, all the big stuff happening before and after and in between. The true magic happening only when the lesser magic fails, the ghost daughter who moved during the exposure, her face unreadable but more alive than all her frozen family. Double exposures, as if a little strip of time had been folded back on itself. Scratches and sun flares. Photos torn postdivorce, faces scratched out or Biroed over. The camera telling the truth only when something slips through its silver fingers.

I believe that social media has become a treacherous platform for love interests. Before the Internet invaded our lives, I’m sure that each single person liked a lot of people at one time. Before falling into a committed relationship, there are steps taken to get there. Often, this involves talking to and even dating a few people at once. That’s logical. But with Facebook, your competition is suddenly splattered in your face. All I had to do was click onto Number 23’s profile and scan one after another wall post from ladies who may or may not be his mating potentials or mating pasts. I see their names and faces. When I click onto their photos, I open a Pandora’s box into their lives. I see their friends, professions, achievements, hobbies, and bodies. I evaluate, I compare, and when I’m insecure, I tear apart. I copy, paste, email, and text the images to my friends, so that they can assure me that I’m prettier, smarter, have bigger breasts, clearer skin, have something that would make him a fool to want her over me. Suddenly, I am stalking, letting fits of rage overcome me with violent hatred for these women who I’ve never met.

Shit. My Fitbit’s stopped working. Is it the battery?” Tilda clicks with annoyance. “How many steps have we done?” She bangs her Fitbit. “It doesn’t count unless it goes on my Fitbit. I might as well not have bothered.” Tilda’s Fitbit is her latest obsession. For a while it was Instagram, and our daily walk was punctuated by her taking endless photos of raindrops on leaves. Now it’s steps.

I click on the list of attendees, furiously scanning for his name. Yes, there it is. There he is, eyes crinkling away at me from his profile photo, his right arm around someone out of shot. Sam Parker is attending this event. Why hasn’t he said anything to me? Obviously we hardly spend hours chatting, but he could have mentioned it when I was dropping Henry off. Maybe he’s hoping I don’t find out about it

This should be easy because I’ve fallen out of love with Facebook. First, I want to be the kind of friend who hears about others’ milestones in person. I hate learning about major life events buried in a timeline between photos of fresh pedicures and pictures of lunch. When someone close to me has a baby or goes through emergency surgery or suffers a loss, they deserve more than a “like.” A click should never take the place of real interaction. Plus, I almost never visit anyone else’s page

The call of self-expression turned the village of the internet into a city, which expanded at time-lapse speed, social connections bristling like neurons in every direction. At ten, I was clicking around a web ring to check out other Angelfire sites full of animal GIFs and Smash Mouth trivia. At twelve, I was writing five hundred words a day on a public LiveJournal. At fifteen, I was uploading photos of myself in a miniskirt on Myspace. By twenty-five, my job was to write things that would attract, ideally, a hundred thousand strangers per post. Now I’m thirty, and most of my life is inextricable from the internet, and its mazes of incessant forced connection—this feverish, electric, unlivable hell.

I scan my apps to find a new notification—it’s from Instagram. One new follower. I gasp when I open it. Graeme Cracker_Collins has followed me. Graham Cracker. My own private nickname for him. My heart gallops and my chest aches. I click on the tiny photo of Graeme, his face smiling at me from underneath his windswept hair. He’s posted three photos from the Galápagos, and one of them is of me, although you can’t exactly tell. It’s the one he snapped in the highlands. A sunburst obscures most of my face, casting it in shadow, but the outline of my profile cuts a dramatic figure against the trees. I tap on the photo to read the caption. Graeme Cracker_Collins: To the woman who inspired me to rejoin the world, “thank you” will never be enough. Graeme already has more than two hundred followers, many of whom have left messages of love and welcome. Clearly, friends and extended family. Ryan_Collins206 commented on the photo of me: “Who is this woman? I need to give her a kiss.” I swallow past the painful lump in my throat. Graeme has officially returned to the world. Heart cracking, I follow him back.

As I became older, I was given many masks to wear. I could be a laborer laying railroad tracks across the continent, with long hair in a queue to be pulled by pranksters; a gardener trimming the shrubs while secretly planting a bomb; a saboteur before the day of infamy at Pearl Harbor, signaling the Imperial Fleet; a kamikaze pilot donning his headband somberly, screaming 'Banzai' on my way to my death; a peasant with a broad-brimmed straw hat in a rice paddy on the other side of the world, stooped over to toil in the water; an obedient servant in the parlor, a houseboy too dignified for my own good; a washerman in the basement laundry, removing stains using an ancient secret; a tyrant intent on imposing my despotism on the democratic world, opposed by the free and the brave; a party cadre alongside many others, all of us clad in coordinated Mao jackets; a sniper camouflaged in the trees of the jungle, training my gunsights on G.I. Joe; a child running with a body burning from napalm, captured in an unforgettable photo; an enemy shot in the head or slaughtered by the villageful; one of the grooms in a mass wedding of couples, having met my mate the day before through our cult leader; an orphan in the last airlift out of a collapsed capital, ready to be adopted into the good life; a black belt martial artist breaking cinderblocks with his head, in an advertisement for Ginsu brand knives with the slogan 'but wait--there's more' as the commercial segued to show another free gift; a chef serving up dog stew, a trick on the unsuspecting diner; a bad driver swerving into the next lane, exactly as could be expected; a horny exchange student here for a year, eager to date the blonde cheerleader; a tourist visiting, clicking away with his camera, posing my family in front of the monuments and statues; a ping pong champion, wearing white tube socks pulled up too high and batting the ball with a wicked spin; a violin prodigy impressing the audience at Carnegie Hall, before taking a polite bow; a teen computer scientist, ready to make millions on an initial public offering before the company stock crashes; a gangster in sunglasses and a tight suit, embroiled in a turf war with the Sicilian mob; an urban greengrocer selling lunch by the pound, rudely returning change over the counter to the black patrons; a businessman with a briefcase of cash bribing a congressman, a corrupting influence on the electoral process; a salaryman on my way to work, crammed into the commuter train and loyal to the company; a shady doctor, trained in a foreign tradition with anatomical diagrams of the human body mapping the flow of life energy through a multitude of colored points; a calculus graduate student with thick glasses and a bad haircut, serving as a teaching assistant with an incomprehensible accent, scribbling on the chalkboard; an automobile enthusiast who customizes an imported car with a supercharged engine and Japanese decals in the rear window, cruising the boulevard looking for a drag race; a illegal alien crowded into the cargo hold of a smuggler's ship, defying death only to crowd into a New York City tenement and work as a slave in a sweatshop. My mother and my girl cousins were Madame Butterfly from the mail order bride catalog, dying in their service to the masculinity of the West, and the dragon lady in a kimono, taking vengeance for her sisters. They became the television newscaster, look-alikes with their flawlessly permed hair. Through these indelible images, I grew up. But when I looked in the mirror, I could not believe my own reflection because it was not like what I saw around me. Over the years, the world opened up. It has become a dizzying kaleidoscope of cultural fragments, arranged and rearranged without plan or order.

the time it took to get our smartphones out of our pockets and into our hands, scroll and click on our camera app, choose the right photo or video option and finally point and click is as long as 12 seconds.

Clicking the photos, with the political leaders, does not make you a notable or famous figure if you do not prove that.

JUST CLICK ON THIS MESSAGE OR ON THE COVER PHOTO BELOW TO BE ABLE TO READ IT RIGHT NOW!

The show’s host assumed I was going to be an ironic slacker wise-ass and said, “I guess you must think this whole mall is kind of hokey and trashy,” and I said, “No such thing.” He was surprised. “What do you mean?” “I mean that I feel like I’m in another era that we thought had vanished, but it really hasn’t, not yet. I think we might one day look back on photos of today and think to ourselves, ‘You know, those people were living in golden times and they didn’t even know it. Communism was dead, the economy was good and the future, with all of its accompanying technologies, hadn’t crushed society’s mojo like a bug.’ ” Silence. It’s true: Technology hadn’t yet hollowed out the middle class and turned us into laptop click junkies, and there were no new bogeymen hiding in the closet. We may well look back at the 1990s as the last good decade

Two boys play with a soccer ball. Their clothes are patched and dotted with stains, one brown shirt with Snoopy as the Flying Ace but with chunks of white worn away, Snoopy’s existence precarious. Their ball is scuffed. Somewhat deflated. Most likely it was found, discarded by someone who had one better, and the empty lot they’re in is scattered with broken slabs of concrete and thick, scraggly thistles. But the boys are in heaven. Olivia lifts her camera, wanting to capture their joy, the way they’ve adapted the physical obstacles into part of their game, but with one click, she realizes that in truth it’s everything else that makes the photo interesting, that makes their joy stand out. It’s their circumstance. Their stains and tears. Their broken field.

Here are a few different types of emails you can send: Common FAQs – An email that answers repeat questions you get from readers and subscribers Affiliate case study – An email that details the results from taking a course or using a tool that you’re an affiliate for Teaser to an existing post – An email that links to pillar or cornerstone pieces on your blog Tools and resources – An email that shares your favorite tool collection The Start Here – An email that links to your most important resources Break the myths – An email that lays out myths that your subscribers may think are true Behind the scenes – An email that gives an insiders’ peek into what’s going on with your business Personal story – An email that gives an insiders’ peek into your struggles or backstory One-click survey – An email that asks a simple question to segment subscribers or allows them to choose their own email journey Survey or How can I help you? – An email asking for responses or providing an offer to help Postpurchase welcome email – An email sent immediately after purchase to buyers of your offer Unexpected incentive email – A simple cheat sheet, guide, or PDF that subscribers were not expecting Favorite thing – A collection of your favorite books/blogs/stock photo sites, etc. I have used every one of these emails in my email marketing mix. Doing so breaks up the monotony of sending the same style of email each week, and each of these emails feeds your marketing goals differently as well.

We swipe instead of click, we scan instead of read, even our personal email. We get exposure to far more at the surface, but we rarely dig in. As a result, the fine print gets ignored. We go for headlines, not nuance. It’s a deluge of gossip and thin promises . . . blog posts and tweets are getting shorter. We rarely stick around for the long version. “Photo-keratitis,” “snow blindness,” happens when there’s too much ultraviolet, when the fuel for our eyes comes in too strong and we can’t absorb it. Something similar is happening to each of us, to our entire culture as a result of the tsunami of noise vying for our attention.8

FOMO is one of the main reasons why people join other social media platforms. You’ll constantly be prompted to get on Instagram and that can happen with a few clicks once you’re on Facebook. You’ll be notified when your friends are there, and when they post their first story or photo. All that makes you feel like you’re left behind. So you join. You post. You then want more followers. Start using hashtags. Start receiving messages on yet another channel. And add that to your social media rituals that happen a few times daily, which makes the time spent in such activities even longer. So, less attention for anything else, such as spending time with family, learning things, being outside, having hobbies, reading, planning your future, or just enjoying the silence and relaxing.

these features have the potential to create an ecosystem in which attention is more directly and precisely compensated. It won’t necessarily end the phenomenon of “clickbait” journalism—presumably, if stories on Kim Kardashian continue to draw people’s attention, they will fetch the highest payouts in BATS. But the option to tip publishers could send more nuanced, informative signals to them. We don’t know for sure how people will behave, but perhaps they’ll be more inclined to tip BATs for a work of insight and effort than for a sexy photo they felt compelled to click on.

The reason is a neurological chemical called dopamine, the same one Parker had referenced at the media conference. Your brain releases small amounts of it when you fulfill some basic need, whether biological (hunger, sex) or social (affection, validation). Dopamine creates a positive association with whatever behaviors prompted its release, training you to repeat them. But when that dopamine reward system gets hijacked, it can compel you to repeat self-destructive behaviors. To place one more bet, binge on alcohol—or spend hours on apps even when they make you unhappy. Dopamine is social media’s accomplice inside your brain. It’s why your smartphone looks and feels like a slot machine, pulsing with colorful notification badges, whoosh sounds, and gentle vibrations. Those stimuli are neurologically meaningless on their own. But your phone pairs them with activities, like texting a friend or looking at photos, that are naturally rewarding. Social apps hijack a compulsion—a need to connect—that can be even more powerful than hunger or greed. Eyal describes a hypothetical woman, Barbra, who logs on to Facebook to see a photo uploaded by a family member. As she clicks through more photos or comments in response, her brain conflates feeling connected to people she loves with the bleeps and flashes of Facebook’s interface. “Over time,” Eyal writes, “Barbra begins to associate Facebook with her need for social connection.” She learns to serve that need with a behavior—using Facebook—that in fact will rarely fulfill it.

How do companies, producing little more than bits of code displayed on a screen, seemingly control users’ minds?” Nir Eyal, a prominent Valley product consultant, asked in his 2014 book, Hooked: How to Build Habit-Forming Products. “Our actions have been engineered,” he explained. Services like Twitter and YouTube “habitually alter our everyday behavior, just as their designers intended.” One of Eyal’s favorite models is the slot machine. It is designed to answer your every action with visual, auditory, and tactile feedback. A ping when you insert a coin. A ka-chunk when you pull the lever. A flash of colored light when you release it. This is known as Pavlovian conditioning, named after the Russian physiologist Ivan Pavlov, who rang a bell each time he fed his dog, until, eventually, the bell alone sent his dog’s stomach churning and saliva glands pulsing, as if it could no longer differentiate the chiming of a bell from the physical sensation of eating. Slot machines work the same way, training your mind to conflate the thrill of winning with its mechanical clangs and buzzes. The act of pulling the lever, once meaningless, becomes pleasurable in itself. The reason is a neurological chemical called dopamine, the same one Parker had referenced at the media conference. Your brain releases small amounts of it when you fulfill some basic need, whether biological (hunger, sex) or social (affection, validation). Dopamine creates a positive association with whatever behaviors prompted its release, training you to repeat them. But when that dopamine reward system gets hijacked, it can compel you to repeat self-destructive behaviors. To place one more bet, binge on alcohol—or spend hours on apps even when they make you unhappy. Dopamine is social media’s accomplice inside your brain. It’s why your smartphone looks and feels like a slot machine, pulsing with colorful notification badges, whoosh sounds, and gentle vibrations. Those stimuli are neurologically meaningless on their own. But your phone pairs them with activities, like texting a friend or looking at photos, that are naturally rewarding. Social apps hijack a compulsion—a need to connect—that can be even more powerful than hunger or greed. Eyal describes a hypothetical woman, Barbra, who logs on to Facebook to see a photo uploaded by a family member. As she clicks through more photos or comments in response, her brain conflates feeling connected to people she loves with the bleeps and flashes of Facebook’s interface. “Over time,” Eyal writes, “Barbra begins to associate Facebook with her need for social connection.” She learns to serve that need with a behavior—using Facebook—that in fact will rarely fulfill it.

Podesta clicked on the folder containing the digital photos he’d taken of Candace Martin in a car with

At a previous lunch, he had shown Laurent the relevant files on his laptop. In one click, Pascal had made three folders appear, filled with photos of women. ‘Stock’ for the women he had already slept with, ‘In progress’ for those he’d had a date with, ‘Prospective’ for the women he was aiming to date soon.

I have forgotten the glasses, angles, color adjustments, contrast,blur and The photography..... The day the most photogenic person of my life went off my life. That person took my enthusiasm one feels at the moment of pressing the click.

Free Tools   1.        Pixlr.com – a photo editing tool for those who do not have Photoshop 2.       Piktochart – allows you to create your own infographics which are very popular 3.       Pinerly – as long as you pin the image through Pinerly first you can get stats of your pins such as repins, click throughs and more 4.      Picmarkr – you can add a watermark, copyright and logo to your images 5.       Pingraphy – you can schedule your pins with this tool

Tui Snider is a freelance writer, travel blogger, and photographer specializing in offbeat sites, overlooked history, cultural traditions, and quirky travel destinations. Her travel articles and photos have appeared in BMIbaby, easyJet, Wizzit, Click, Ling, PlanetEye Traveler, iStopover, SkyEurope, and North Texas Farm and Ranch magazines, among others. She also wrote the shopping chapter for the “Time Out Naples: Capri, Sorrento, and the Amalfi Coast 2010” travel guidebook. This is her first book.

How do these online distraction systems work? They start with an external trigger or notification. You may visit a Website or sign up for a service. They will then send you an email, follow you on the Internet with ads, or send you a push notification with very specific language that has been tested to get you to click on it. You click on the link and your attachment or connection to that distraction system gets a little bit stronger. You, unintentionally, provide that system with more information when you read an article, add a friend, or comment on a photo. Without realizing it, and behind the scenes, the machinery of distraction is starting to turn. On a scale of 1-10, with 10 being completely attached, you are a 2 at this point. These companies know that you don’t really care about the company itself, but you do care about your friends, family, and co-workers. They leverage these relationships by showing your profile to these contacts. These people are then asked to add you as a contact, friend, or to comment on your photo. Guess what this does? It brings you back to the site and increases the attachment. Think about this just for a second. If a company wants me to come back to their site, then they have a much higher chance of getting me back if they tell me my nephew added me as a friend, or posted a new pic. I care about my nephew. I don’t care about the company. This happens a few times and the attachment goes from a 2 to a 5. Soon, you have more and more connections on the site. Many of these sites have a magic number. Once you cross that threshold they know they really have you. Let’s say it is 10 connections. Once you have 10 connections they know with a level of statistical certainty that they can get you coming back to the site several times a week. Your attachment then goes from a 5 to a 7. All this time they are still pinging you via email, ads or push notifications to get you back to the site. The prompts or triggers to get you back are all external. You may be experiencing uncomfortable emotions like anxiety, sadness, or boredom, but you are not yet feeling these as triggers to go to the site and escape these feelings. Instead, what happens gradually, is that the trigger moves from being external like an email prompt and moves internal. Soon, they do not have to remind you or leverage your relationships to go back to the site. You are now doing it on your own. You are checking it regularly on your own. Your attachment has moved from a 7 to an 8. They’ve got you now, but they don’t completely have you. The tendrils are not yet deep into your brain and that is really where they want to go. They want to get as wrapped around your brain as possible, because the deeper they are - the more unconscious this behavior of checking the site - the more time you spend on the site and the more money they make. When you start living your life, not for what you are actually experiencing at the moment, but instead for how you imagine it will look to other people on these sites, then they really have you. When the experience itself is less meaningful than the image of you on the site and the number of likes it gets, then they are getting really deep. They have moved the center of your self from your actual life and transferred it to the perception of your life on their site. You now mostly live for reactions from other people on these company’s sites. By this time, you are likely refreshing the page, habitually looking at your phone, and wondering why your pic or video has not received more comments or likes. By this time you are fully hooked, as my good friend Nir Eyal would say, and your attachment has gone from an 8 to a full 10. They’ve got you hook, line, and sinker. Scary

But maybe every life looked wonderful if all you saw was the photo albums. People always obediently smiled and tilted their heads when a camera was put in front of them. Perhaps seconds after the shutter clicked [they] sprang apart, avoiding each others’ eyes, their smiles replaced by snarls.

Who made the concept of smiling for camera a social norm? It's not required for one to smile unless you really are smiling while photo us being clicked.

Photo Eraser for Mac Instantly Erase Unwanted Objects from Photo for Mac and fix photos with a few clicks

The word photography comes from two ancient Greek words: photo for "light" and graph for "drawing." "Drawing with light" is a way of describing photography.

It’s easy to find Cami and Lana in the crowd with how the rhinestones on Cami’s tiara glitter under the bright sun. Her plastic heels click and clack against the cobbled road leading up to Princess Cara’s castle. Lana clutches Cami’s sneakers in her other hand, ready to replace the heels once Cami’s feet hurt. I pull out my phone and snap a photo of Cami and Lana holding hands before walking up to them. Cami doesn’t hesitate as she grabs on to mine, and the three of us take off to the first activity I have planned.

A WOMAN WITH A BIRD A bald eagle called out to another as magpies attacked their nest. Someone called it romantic. I believed her. The magpies, the ferryman, God, the poets, everything seemed romantic in Alaska, where people breathed out white birds. When I breathed, nothing came out. The eagles sat side by side and I wondered why they stayed long after the magpies had gone. At first, I thought the eagle was watching me. Then I realized the eagle was my life watching me. The distance between my life and myself had become too far. Because of my desire to find a way out of my life. When that happens, our breath comes out elsewhere. As if each day, I walked in a door but came out of another door. I wondered what country my breath came out in. When the male eagle finally flew off to a distant tree, the female didn’t follow. I felt something in my body attach and heard a clicking noise. I had been holding my breath for decades, while others painted my breasts, one white, one brown. In Alaska, my life was with me again, attached for now. I took photos of the birds to remind myself that the unsettled feeling wasn’t caused by me, and could be solved by traveling somewhere cold.

I miss you in photos, I click for myself.

As soon as I click on the last photo, the screen fills with the image of a drugged woman, and it’s like I’ve just been punched in the chest. Everything else disappears except for her. She’s barely able to keep her eyes open, but the deep, vibrant blue of them is impossible to miss. Her long, dark hair is loose, falling around her shoulders, and there’s something about her that seems so small, so fragile, so fucking innocent that it makes me want to kill every motherfucker in the place for daring to drag her into this.

Before I ever took a photo of anyone, I’d take the time to get to know them—asking them about their childhood dreams, their cherished memories, the people they loved most,” Claudia said. “And then, as they were talking, I’d start clicking the shutter.

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Jucikas typed in a query, and a list of links popped up. He clicked on one of the many people who went by that name in Nebraska – and there was everything about her, right up on the screen. Here’s her photo, here’s where she works, here’s her house. Here are her kids, this is where they go to school, this is the car she drives. She voted for Mitt Romney in 2012, she loves Katy Perry, she drives an Audi, she’s a bit basic … and on and on and on. We knew everything about her – and for many records, the information was updated in real time, so if she posted to Facebook, we could see it happening.

Down the entire length of the waiting line, as if Annie’s fit was a kind of wildfire, other children began to scream and shake. A few parents had to drag their possessed children away, giving up their places, which caused the children to scream even more. The people who remained in line looked at Caleb and Camille and Annie as if they had personally ruined Christmas for all time. It was, Caleb realized, amazing. “Hurry up and take the photo,” Caleb said to the bored elf and there was a flash of bulbs, the click of the captured image, and Caleb quickly ran toward Santa, plucked the child out of the terrified old man’s lap, and hugged his daughter, feeling the radiating warmth of her unhappiness now happily in his possession

Those vestal virgins found guilty of being unchaste”—their leader’s voice ricochets off the surrounding walls—“were whipped to death in the public square.” She pauses so they can take photos and ask questions. “Public deaths were popular,” I hear her answer someone. “As were blood shows—known as munera. After lunch we will see the slave quarters beneath the Colosseum.” There are collective oohhs and aahhs, and I wonder if they would watch one, or if I would. The ripping of flesh, the breaking of man. Suddenly I get a cramp. When was the last time I had my period? Three, five weeks ago? I can’t remember. I should have been recording it in that damn diary. One of the tour members is watching the couple, who are back at it. Our eyes meet, and I feel myself blush. He’s short and hefty, wearing pleated pants and a sweat-stained polo shirt. His hand rests on a camera that hangs around his neck. He smiles, waggles his eyebrows. Yes, hi, hello. I give him a polite grimace and turn so I can sit more comfortably. Then slowly, out of the corner of my eye I see him raise his camera and click. I don’t know if he’s taking a picture of me or the couple or the ruins. Maybe all three. When the cramp subsides, the tour has moved on. The couple too. At the entrance, I flag down a cab, feeling more spent than I should. “Signora, signora.” The cabby rattles off something in Italian. Usually a migraine precedes my period, and I think I feel one coming on. “Where to?” he finally asks in English.

It's not what it looks like. That was a photo one of my barbecue teammates took. That was our ice luge. It melted, so I was picking it up and throwing it over the fence there. But from the angle he took the picture, my teammates thought it looked funny and posted it online. You can write your story and try to get a couple of clicks. It is what it is. ut it's just stupid. It's a nonstory. Given what’s happening with so many elected officials in the capital with so many real scandals going on, it seems like someone is trying to do a little misdirection and throw some heat onto a political consultant who has no skin in the game.

Part: 1 July This one more of how where I remember these days. Photos online, and cam videos all that are my memories- of me to others. Part: 2 August Compare… them then and now- naked slut girl or 1940s modesty. I remember having the old photo album spread out on the bedroom floor. Oh! Wow! Look at this one… do you like how she was remembered better than me? (Photo) Part: 3 It's- September More of the same- I have become a cam-whore!!! Nothing more… Part: 4 OCTOBER …And yah- a, ah- pics that would make you blush, and hard, you boys would love to see me, now, wouldn’t you? Part: 5 NOVEMBER Making cummie videos is my life. Part: 6 DECEMBER Coming 7 hours out of the day is taking time away from other things. Part: 7 WAKING UP …After fraping till- I passed out all hot gross and sweaty, I did not remember falling asleep- with mom and dad- sis and the world seeing me as my door to my trashed bedroom- all jammed open- and’s- and’s- AND’S- did not care at this point. (SAY IT WITH exhausted SLURRING.) JANUARY yet how- ga-gives- a ________. Ef… E- un- mm- ah- in-n… Whatever… I am making 50 G’s in a night… so that makes it okay. (A photo of me lying in bed with all this money!) Part: 8 TIME PASSES Craziness… look at my life here… all board… ‘I am home,’ I mumbled, confused- not even more. ‘What did I do?’ I felt my face wrinkle. It was so unfair. My behavior… here is wow… After that first week… of doing this… How do I look… which neither of us ever mentioned what we do? I hadn't missed a day of school or work. My grades were perfect. Yet this show is all going to shit- no? This is what I did here… showing everything that makes me a girl! Now I am passing down- to her- yah me- is it wrong? I must live with it. #- A cam video and all these photos of her online now are worth 1,000 words! #-0-okay then what does this one says then? My little sis- and she is frapping harder than I do- in this- damn, she is my Minnie me! She started younger than me even- yet that is all girls, her age. Here is one with her dressed wow seem weird to see her with something on anymore- (Swipe- and the phone in your hand would make a click sound…) Oh, this one- She loves these beautiful white lace kid’s girls’ shorts- so girlie- girly- from Wal-Mart, yet she was banned from wearing them in school without anything under them, yet I look around and all other girls do it. Yet, on Facebook- and Instagram 1, you get one persona and on Google images a whole other- just like Snapchat you have her as your girlfriend for the night yet have- yet she is your striptease only- and the other Instagram- that grammar should never- ever see- yet this is how to get popular- and stay popular. Besides then there is the community of internet nudists- on MFC. And the profile- she now has too, a legacy to be remembered by, no? Yet, when you have no education to speak of and working for some d*ck head is just out of the question, over they think you’re not worthy of their time- were you're not making anything, and at this point in Pa she too young to work, yet is old enough to have unprotected sex… Um- and then I wonder- yet she needs the money- for school coming up because your mommy and daddy don’t have it, and all for fun, boys, and a girl's night of fun- and partying- and being crazy. Money is everything… and why girls do what they must do…

Yet, they don’t know anything about who I am really… like I’m not sure if I know who I am…! They just see what they see. I’m not sure if Ray understands me completely or not, so how are they going to, just looking at my profile photos on their computers clicking away. They just want to feel the inside of me, not get inside of me. (Yah- know.) So anyway, at lunch today. Jenny is somewhat okay, that I want to be with Ray… so she said, at the table smelling through her teeth. The stipulation she gave was only if we keep on nodding terms, like with all the other guys or even girls I am with. So that means that I can have a full-blown relationship, whether I find them attractive if they're popular, hot, or not. That I can only hook up with a girl or boy, yet not stay with them. It made no sense to me. At the time I didn’t get it. Just like I didn’t get it when I saw Maddie was wearing bunny slippers, and a holy bathrobe to school today. Looking like, she was ridden hard and put away wet. I giggled so hard in math class today when she walked into the room; I think I snorted loudly.

filling the form in.  She held up the photo and matched it with the wall, a tired, thinlooking girl looking out at her. It was set to the right of Oliver’s. They could have had them taken at the same time. She’d ask Mary.  Grace had said she had only been with Oliver — or at least that’s what the answers suggested. She’d have to ask her to make sure. It wasn’t unknown for homeless people to get into disagreements over love. When you’ve got nothing much to lose, the law doesn’t come into play when you’re asking yourself if you’re prepared to kill for someone.  Grace also admitted to being a regular heroin user and agreed to have an examination. She also said she didn’t have any diseases as far as she knew. She was the same age, too. Eighteen. Had they known each other before they’d become homeless? She’d have to find Grace to know the truth.  She went back to Oliver’s file and checked the date next to his signature. It said the seventh of September. Just under two months ago.  Jamie leafed to the next and only other page in the file. It was another shabbily photocopied sheet. Mary must have been doing them on her printer-scanner at home, creating them on her computer. She really did care. The sheet displayed a pixelated outline of the human body — no doubt an image pulled off the web and then stretched out to fill a page. The resolution was too low to keep any sort of detail, but the shape still came through okay. It was a human with their arms out, feet apart. At the top of the page, in Comic Sans, ‘Examination Sheet’ was written as the title.  In appropriately illegible handwriting for a doctor, notes had been jotted around the body. Parts had been circled with lines being drawn to the corresponding note. She read words like ‘graze’ and ‘lesion’. ‘Rash’ cropped up a few times. But there didn’t look to be anything sinister going on. The crooks of the elbows, as well as the ankles, were all circled several times but nothing was written at the sides. Those areas didn’t need explaining, though underneath, as if encapsulating the entire exam were the words ‘No signs of infection’. So he’d been relatively careful, then. Clean needles, at least. Under that, there was a little paragraph recommending a general blood panel, but overall, Oliver seemed to be in decent health. Nothing had been prescribed, it seemed.  She checked Grace’s and found it to be much the same, complete with triple circles around the elbows and ankles. Though her genital area had also been circled and the word ‘Rash’ had been written. At the bottom, a prescription had been written for azithromycin.  Jamie clicked her teeth together, rummaging in her brain for the name. Was it a gonorrhoea medication or chlamydia? She knew it was for an STD, she just couldn’t remember which. But that meant that where she’d put down ‘1’ for number of

Press “Body sheet 1” and take a screenshot (If your Oc has a tail or is holding something, also take a screenshot of “Body sheet 2”); Go to Ibis Paint X; Separate all of the body parts into different layers, then press “Save layer as transparent PNG” on all of them; Now go to “Cute Cut”; Press the plus (+) symbol in the top left; Tap “Create”; Select the same neon green I showed you earlier as the background colour; Choose “Done”; Tap another plus (+) symbol; Select “Photo” and click the hair screenshot; Tap the plus underneath and again press “Photo”; Now select the body screenshot; Keep on doing this until you have the whole Oc done; Double tap the hair screenshot and position it; Do this with the rest of the body parts until the Oc looks good;

Searching for a hotel in Miami a little while ago, I drew up a short list of five good offers. Right away, one jumped out at me, but I wanted to make sure I had found the best deal and decided to keep researching. I plowed my way through dozens of customer reviews and blog posts and clicked through countless photos and videos. Two hours later, I could say for sure which the best hotel was: the one I had liked at the start. The mountain of additional information did not lead to a better decision. On the contrary, if time is money, then I might as well have taken up residence at the Four Seasons.

Clicking the photos with the political leaders does not make you a notable or famous figure if you do not prove that.

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Amy declined our offer to help her stay and sift through her webcam photos from last night. I was desperate to see what would show up but this was her bedroom and I suppose she had a reasonable fear of two creepy males clicking through shots of her dressing and doing the things girls do alone in their bedrooms. Lighting farts or whatever.

Interesting facts about Facebook: · More than 400 million active users · 50% of our active users log on to Facebook in any given day · More than 35 million users update their status each day · More than 60 million status updates posted each day · More than 3 billion photos uploaded to the site each month · More than 5 billion pieces of content (links, news stories, blog posts, notes, photo albums, etc.) shared each week · More than 3.5 million events created each month · More than 3 million active Pages on Facebook · More than 1.5 million local businesses have active Pages on Facebook · More than 20 million people become fans of Interesting facts about Facebook users: · Average user has 130 friends on the site · Average user sends 8 friend requests per month · Average user spends more than 55 minutes per day on Facebook · Average user clicks the Like button on 9 pieces of content each month · Average user writes 25 comments on Facebook content each month · Average user becomes a fan of 4 Pages each month · Average user is invited to 3 events per month · Average user is a member of 13 groups Pages each day · Pages have created more than 5.3 billion fans