There’s a black silhouette engraved in the corner of my screen I find as comforting as a cigarette always seems to be (looking from the outside in). He drinks coffee and talks with his hands almost savage enough I might pick out words. I’m working on the pictures I took at the Cultch for Shane. Some of them burn with light, some of them are too blurry to use, but there’s not one bad picture in the lot. I’m a little proud and yet it’s anticlimactic. They’re everything I expected them to be. Everyone kept mistaking me for a reporter.
It’s snowing again. Two days now of brittle sunlight and these flakes floating down like the ashes of someone’s favourite million page book. It makes me want to find a vast pale room with a giant skylight and a hardwood floor and lie in the middle of it with grand orchestral pop music on, just staring up into the sky.