Sometimes you take a picture that you want to step into after it's developed, which is a wild feeling, since, well, you were there when it was taken. I was in that place. I've already been there. But the photograph is different from the truth—just out of frame are terrible smells and crowded paths and horrible, oppressive heat—and here I am, yearning for the lie that I made for myself by cropping out everything I didn't want to see