01AUG
The corridor was empty but for the cables and the hum of the air conditioning. I sat on a folded garment rack and ran my thumb over the leather of my grandfather's camera — the shutter still works, even if nobody here knows what it means to me. The makeup artist touched up my eyeliner one last time, smudged it instead, said it looked better lived-in. I think she was right. There's something about the hour after, when the clothes are just clothes again and you're just yourself, holding something that outlives the moment.
Mood: reflective