Stories with pictures and sometimes the other way around.
There’s enough light to make out the shape of her face and therefore enough light to navigate the outlines of her eye. To an onlooker, she is putting on mascara but to the trained eye, she is solving a puzzle, using the nearby window for clues. Insight. And I’m astounded she—fiddling with the cosmetic Rubik’s cube—knows that the answer isn’t too far.
I look back at high school sports with fondness because most of us were still adapting to half mature bodies and unforgiving hormones. Raging pre-teens and big lights made football players look like gods and we all loved it. Made epics of it. The drama, the botched plays, energy spent on a cold field instead of writing a long overdue paper—everything that made the teen years exhilarating and perhaps too short to take in completely.
I revisited my Alma Mater and was astounded with how drastically its landscape has changed. Four years ago, this street at 10pm was a dark, slightly scary thorough-way, ripe with drunkards and obscene battle cries. Now it’s somewhere between Rockefeller Center and an aspiring Paris boulevard.
I imagine the drunkards will still be there though.