A small camera lies here, forgotten and tucked into the corner of a long-abandoned industrial loft. Its only company is the dusty boxes that lay stacked around it, names written on the sides in black sharpie.
Roger, Mimi, Collins, Angel, Joanne, Maureen, Mark.
The boxes are filled with film, many years worth and very old. It's such a simple thing; so fragile and yet these boxes are the only thing that endured, they contain all that remains of the lives of seven friends.
There was no glory. No famous protest, no last dance. They had left no mark behind to show that they lived. Nothing remains of them except this film, lost and forgotten on Avenue B.