Fractal Recursion
There is a photograph on Frank Callahan's refrigerator that I have looked at a hundred times. It shows Tommy at age seven, sitting on his father's lap in the cab of a tow truck, both of them grinning at the camera with the same gap-toothed smile. The truck is yellow. The sky is blue. The world is infinite with possibility. The photograph is a small world that contains the shape of the larger...
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