about a week ago i was location-scouting for a shoot outside a cemetery.
on a road leading into the graveyard there were four men with bundles of roses capitalizing on funeral-goers forgetfulness/grief/guilt
as i stood on the hood of james, purveying angles and potential compositions, snapping test shots and basking the los angeles afternoon sun, i pondered the waiting game
waiting on death, waiting on funerals and their patrons
i contemplated it all flat on my back, on top of my volvo
eventually, i slid off the roof of the car. one of the younger men selling flowers (maybe 20?) approached me.
“no tenger dinero,” i said
“i am a man. this is for you,” he said
i drove home with a bouquet of three red roses meant for the dead