In time.
Things either right themselves.
Or fall completely off the spool.
Like this frame.
Funny.
How much I enjoy the imperfection.
Of photography.
—————
This daily crucible.
Is becoming less forgiving.
For.
So many.
—————
This must be a function of my age.
Or.
Our Age.
Because my (shortening) memory.
Tells me.
The wind was once.
Perfect.
Steady.
And.
At our backs.
—————
This legacy we’ve been left.
Feels dead.
And today.
I concede.
My only choice.
Live.
Off the spool.
And struggle for.
Imperfection.
————-
Kill the weekend my friends.
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