There is a time of day on Magazine Street in New Orleans during the winter when the sun shines just so, and it gleams through a bit of cut steel and it draws on a wall the image of a telephone, of a little piece of metal and plastic we use to touch each other when we’re too far away to holler. The phone only lasts for ten minutes, at best—barely long enough to notice, to try and stream some of that light through a little hole and by doing so mash some chemicals down on sticky paper so you can remember.