Ember is God's blowtorch. She is the steam used to covertly open and reseal every glued envelope in my thought life. My inner sanctum of lust for power and personal peace is a WWII scene after the bombers sprinkle their offspring on the cityscape.
My son, who is a man worth knowing, revived my love of medium format film photography, last year. I have been wearing out the path to and from the film lab in effort to gain mastery of this dark craft. Along the way, I've made a few glaring mistakes of which I'm not proud. Each exposure costs money. It actually costs something to push the button on this thing.
That's not normal anymore. But, I think it should be.
For reasons unknown to me until now, I've avoided writing publicly.
Well, that's not entirely true. I've avoided writing, in large part, because I feel a burden of obligation to keep writing once I've started. Like the person in your life who feels obligated to stay talking once they've said hello. The fear of what silence might reveal about them propels their mouth to pump out sounds in effort to prevent the entry of penetrating questions.
Another thing is that now you know something about me and I still know exactly as much about you as I did before I wrote this.