Conducted the customary morning walk: the circuit of diverse brush strokes and dissections and curves and corridors and resplendent two-by-fours. Arrived at the lot of recently developed housing: the diagonally displaced trio wedged in an infertile patch of excavated territory amidst the forestry no longer endeavoured to affright as much as humour; not so much lush trunks of gorgonian silva as rare stumps, as chivalry turned farce. A silent creek plows its aimless way adjunct. A lake across the roadway sinks under the gross weight of putrefaction.
Whichever clock hand bearing I approach before Aurora settles, unfolds the photogenic configuration. The penumbra waning, the curtain anxious to be clasped and tossed aside; the incidental window lights, pale; the distance from the viewpoint, meet; the geometry, agreeable; the Lovecraft macabre New England rusticity, manifest; the toy Nikon photo camera, unconventionally at hand, I lay prostrate before the art of composition.
Doubtful over the prospects to deliver at such low lighting conditions (which underwent transformation at every minute of this precarious hour), I resolved to tinker anyhow. And I tinkered over a solid quarter of an hour. Black and White mode, paramount. High contrast. Focus, exposure, angles, varied. Kneel. Steady … Focus. Click. Depress. Upright. Hazy. Repeat. Repeat. And more of such and other dextrous manipulations. Enough. Tinkered to my content. My amateurish eye settles with one, possibly two stills worthy of a postcard or the rear cover of a pulp horror novel.
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