Seven hours in a darkroom. It will do strange things to one’s physiologically sensitive body. It will perpetrate adhesive bonds to those accompanying you. It will procure more pizza breaks than you would care to remember tomorrow. I have yet to take care of my needs.

Yet as I blew steam on the steps of a Powder Factory staircase a small smile finally began to spread like wild, ferociously quiet fire across my thoughts, grazing the corners of my lips. I need not fret over the response to my candid portrayal of emotions. Because I know it was received, I know this sir’s small bag from anywhere, can call out his favorite powder color.

Can liberate myself from these desires to share my view from a black and white reflective lens. Let me not get trampled by his self condemnation. I am free and intend to stay that way.
Crunch time needs not another reason to stomp upon my sanity.