Lean guy in gray t-shirt. Slumps over an illuminated keyboard. Focused. Silent. Shadows his own face. Coffee half empty. Stubs of cigs just beyond the cup. One stoic, stern, uncompromising, young, straight man in S.F. Totally tech’d out. Head, double-sized by black headphones. Hips, graced by thin white cords. Clothes ragged, stylin’ rips, but the gear, top notch. Beanie over stubble hair. Matching beard stubble darkly up the face. Goatee two inches long. Eyes so direct…don’t look into them unless you are strong--like his nightly retreat to the chaos of the street strong. Escapes made into the glowy ever-light of downtown from dorm boys, dorm noise, dumb dorm norm. 3rd floor, room 324: two 19 year olds fight and cry and fight with the same pissiness every night. Overhead: the ceiling thuds. Throaty voices. Miscued laughter. Perverse giggles. Hip Hop booms. Cigars. Vodka. Texas Tea. No one sleeps, try or not. The lean guy either. Prowling the almost empty streets for hours with a lens as big as his mind. Photos hobos, whores, and other assorted hostages of personal crisis. Mostly older white men, all muted—nowhere near as desperate as the straight, young man in gray t-shirt. He’s losing his grip. Disappointment red raw. His island, nearly worn back into the sea. Who then is he left to be? Solitary man. The city night bursts with multiple plains of empty windows. People and garbage decay on the sidewalks, side by side, no hope alive. Tipsy mannequins display come-ons behind barred up panes of glass. Prissy objectives of the academy—as solid as the fog that daily blocks out the morning sunlight. Nothing desirable to hold on to. Just the terror that turns his guts. Head and heart pound sometimes even in rhythm. That’s never good. Rest helps a lot. The orderly anger of rap sooths. Soaks up tension. With camera and laptop, wifi’ing and shooting. This, a purpose driven life. The purpose: Keep living. Never settle. Occasionally sleep.