A photo taken at just the right time. At just the right moment. Between seconds and between moments. When the flash is there and gone but always there. The ghost hand right before the buck, when the aim is still parallel and the forces are still coming together. Before the collision. Movement beyond time and vision, happening on another plane, not meant for human witness. The things in the photo look like they're made out of unearthly material. The flesh isn’t flesh. The metal is frozen in ice. The end of it spits a cone of black industrial smoke that recedes as if going downwind. Stick-like tongues lick at the smoke, an even purer black, reaching into the cloud toward the negative vacuum that sucks out the light and tries to pull in the energy. A little piece of anti-matter tears across space, having emerged from the flat end of the cone and splits behind it a shape much like a teardrop on its side. A rip in existence, peeling back a truer reality. But you can’t see what’s through the tear. It’s the light at the end of the tunnel. And behind it all everything opens up completely and permanently and the sky is white and the moon is black.