“I need to photograph more,” I said to myself on a crisp, spring day. I was in one of those artist’s slumps where I felt the desire to make something but not quite having the energy to lift myself from my chair. Instead I rocked myself into further justification for doing nothing. I looked out my window knowing that I was wasting a perfectly good day.
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For over a week we've woken here to a low-lying shroud of fog. In the hazy, first moment of waking I am confused. I am fooled into thinking that I'm opening my eyes as a young boy—and discovering a silent blanket of fresh snow out my window. I think I am five again.