Looking for the few right words that will fix everything.
Maybe next time.

It was the shortest day of the year and somewhere along the way the bottom had dropped out.

Do gorillas throw shit in the wild?

The older couple at the next table, whose lingering self regard stems from the memory that they were considered beautiful three or four decades ago.

Writing about photography—more about writing than photography.

I think about the beach cottage we always rented the first week or two of August. The photograph I took each day, hoping to preserve it all. The older couple we saw every year, who we never saw again. The roadside farm where we bought eggs, vegetables and topnecks. I wonder if the same books are on the shelves. I wonder if it has crumbled into the sea.

We finally came to the end of big, dumb ideas.

Alcohol consumption had erased much of his memory, but not enough of it.

Stepping out after a dreadful night, you feel the air on your skin and it all rolls over you again: the majesty of life on earth.