signs of life

Somewhere between all the recent cleaning and packing and drinking and cleaning and packing and riding and arguing with the city's idiot sanitation crews, I've still been squeezing in quiet moments at Starbucks for a cup of coffee and a window to hammer at the photobook project. Mostly writing, and editing, organizing the photos to be used. I attach my work to emails and drop them into a narrow chute marked "Sonadei," but what happens to them on the other end, I still have no idea.

And then, just this morning--an email in a bottle, floated across the ocean; inside only a photograph, albeit one bearing the rich fruits of productivity:

Shit's getting real.