Ten.Two Thousand, Five Hundred & Thirty-One
Don’t want to. But need to.
These shorter days are really messing up my morning.
He texts to say that he forgot his backpack.
There’s always a point in the day during these shoots where you just can’t think anymore, so no idea sounds good, and every idea sounds good. And there’s never enough time.
Still better than Monday, though.
The says 106 degrees.
She says there’s a fire somewhere in Calistoga.
So, so, orange. Fiery orange.
Football BBQ. New faces, old faces. He says something about my pink Crocs. “I already know everyone here, and there’s no one I need to impress.”
But when this happens, it’s hard to convince yourself that it’s safe to sleep.