One of the real difficulties of taking photographs of the ordinary and the everyday - not the quotidien of one's own house, full of memories and associations and other emotional depositories, but the mundanely Out There - is that there's sometimes very little to be said about it. On Hamilton Street, New Brunswick, this morning - a peculiarly clear and promising spring day - this simply just was. What makes it, of course, is the entirely anomalous wreath - why would anybody bother stenciling it there? It's a neighborhood full of tagging - there are just some little, discreet bits of gang-style graffiti here - of disintegrating stuffed black garbage sacks, of stray empty beer bottles, disinterred bicycles that have been stripped down to their sad frames, and bits of furniture that sit on porches not sure whether they are redundant or not. So this little wreath, applied with precision, is a strange decorative statement, curiously precise, and commemorative, in its form, of something completely indecipherable.