Friday Night Lights

Like an abandoned puppy, the city follows him. And with each move, moving seems more implausible. The growing stack of long-distance phone bills collects dust in the drawer next to hand-written birthday cards he refuses to throw out.

His mind never leaves the drawer. Even and especially when he drinks, the space inside his skull is trapped between two thin panes of glass, holding a picture in its frame. The piles of photographs, books and magazines grow like the moldy plates of leftovers his parents found months after he vacated the room in their basement.

Click. Capture. Repeat. The website reads: take more photographs. Another night, another stack. But even as new faces glow off the screen of his digital camera, the same framed city watches him fall asleep each night, like the puppy he can't stop loving.