I tried my damndest to be a photographer today. I even dressed myself as I would dress while carrying lenses, tripods, leathers that stifle women's fantasy's of other men. However, the roads still new the flaws in my car, my body. I would swerve and sway in a precarious dance where both nature and I would try to lead. She did not succumb to my leathers.
Rather i took a total of 7 pictures of a prepared 177. After that the road tried to eat my car. I would have none of that. Instead I made many drivers late for appointments, dates, loves that would no longer be there. I drove slowly, methodically, meticulously those few miles from Paoli to home. Returing was work. Toil. The Frech would call it travail.
There wasn't a dry eye in the house during the unveiling.
Would it only go as expected, all would be perfect. But there was meddling involved.
actual size unknown
Some times you have to toy with things, even if you haven't a clear view of the results.
They would have been quicker had they known death was my muse.
We would dry their tears together