Grain.

When I picked up my first camera ever, my dad told me not to. I said “Why?” and he said “You’d become too absorbed in taking photos,” he paused, “just like I used to.” I didn’t understand. I thought it was simple: hold the camera still, click the shutter button and you’re done. “Once I lived on photos,” my dad said as he pulled out chunks of old grainy photos from the attic, “these were for customers that never returned to pick up their pictures.” Pretty ladies in blouses and gentlemen in suits with hair combed back standing by Hoan Kiem Lake took me into a wormhole. This was here. This was right here. This was part of what we are, what I am. I guess I will never feel guilty of taking what was a part of me with my existence.