A couple of times, while D was collecting amounts owing, I accompanied E.
No, photographing ghosts certainly wasn’t like photographing people.
It took a long time to find the ghosts. You had to ask questions, make calls from public telephone booths, and talk with people who were afraid of telling you what they knew.
“When a ghost withers, it becomes a bone.
And if it withers further, it becomes dust.
We have to find them before that stage,” E explained to me.
And when he finished his sentence, for the first time ever, I experienced a strange feeling that I defined as a black-hole feeling.1
1A sadness that, even though you feel it, doesn’t belong to you.