The line between solitude and loneliness is detrimentally patina-ed with rust. It is brittle and unpredictable and heart-breakingly tenuous. I can never tell when I will be inspired, or when the quiet will turn insipid, making me swell with a boggy, stagnant feeling. Bloated with an overwhelming sense of myself, I hear the call sound in the far distance; its weary red bleating warns that this state of mind must be overturned, and put to use. If I respond, I take my camera with me and go out looking around my neighborhood streets. Then the silence reaches my inner ear and the world becomes clearly pronounced, as my voice narrates it to me.
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