Word spreads. She’s pushing the bike down the street, surrounded by hundreds of mourners. They saw her message on his Myspace page. They walk by the bike, tossing down flowers and photographs and messages to David. She didn’t expect this.

Mooi artikel over tijd, herinnering, en hoe het internet invloed heeft op de eeuwigheid van ons bestaan.

She hands me a manila envelope, tipping it to spill old slides and prints into my hands. “Have you scanned these in?” I ask. “I don’t know how,” she says. “Then they don’t exist,” I reply.