Below, I’ve done a bit of paraphrasing, but these lines, or some form thereof, are from the story. Go check it out. Enjoy!
The curator’s curse has stuck, I just found a loophole. I used to take pictures of the graffiti on the street signs around the block. There’s an iron fence around my building. I used to obsess over the shadows it cast across the sidewalk, how the lines went perpendicular when viewed from the right angle. Now I obsess over why it’s there. The transition from photographer to writer didn’t happen overnight. My knack for composing a shot is gone. The curtains have been removed from the darkroom. The light has been let in. What once was a wall full of Polaroids is now a wall full of plot points. The classifieds lay on the kitchen counter, buried under the obituaries. RIP.