Maybe this is art. Or something like it, at least - shaking laughter, twilight softness, the air sweet with a fragile sort of joy.
I am rather squeamish about photographs. Side effect of depression, I suppose - as the happiness plummets, so does the body image. & so on, & so forth. We know how it goes.
But there is part of the story that takes place here, beyond all of that: humid summer evening, windows thrown wide open, loose-limbed & light-hearted, the air wishing it was water. Yes. This is how it spells out - we will forget the jokes in the haze of morning, but there is a person on the other end of the lens who is my favourite of all. He does not want to lose this.
Just for a moment, neither do I.
Blurry iPhone photos of fleeting laughter lines. The feeling of being alive in one's own skin.
Maybe this is art. Maybe this is hope. Maybe they are one & the same.