We were drifting down the concrete artery of some dead-end city, three or four ghosts carrying the weight of a Friday night we didn’t really want. I had this cheap digital camera glued to my hand, the kind of plastic garbage that bleeds the soul out of a room and spits it back as a low-res JPG. I kept pointing the lens at things—at a broken neon sign, at a puddle of street grease, at our own hollowed-out faces—as if saving the receipt of our existence could somehow prove we were actually here.
2026-07-04 14:51:28
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