The serendipitous acceptance of imperfection in a messy world, otherwise known as what happens when you forget to stop, stay still then shoot while chasing the crowd down the street.
Out alone on Dartmoor in the wild mid-winter when howling winds from ancient times stirred the limbs and leaves to blow a chorus of thunder through the mighty oaks.
This time last year and so many seasons since . . . when it doesn’t seem that long ago at all.
Shot down on the Bowery during a biting snow storm, squeezing the last final frames out of the camera before the creeping lens fog declared enough, no more.
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