I fix my gaze upon the frame. I see no photograph — and yet I see. Before me lies the womb of the photograph: the very place where the image was meant to rest, then to emerge. Those photographs that were never born. Those whose seeds were miscarried before existence. The crimson wound within the image bears witness — as if, in memory of that wound, the color has drained from the photograph. I look at Maryam Takhtkeshian’s photograph, and at these words — perhaps the tongue of the text lies dumb, and the sharp eloquence of the image remains sheathed.