To me, this photo looks like it was taken by a grandmother who has not been visited in so long that she hardly recognizes the faces smiling at her from the photos scattered around her cluttered apartment.
You can't see it, but there's a cup of cold tea that the old woman keeps bringing to her lips and taking small sips from. It was warm when she sat down to write the letter to her daughter, but the words are coming slow and with difficulty.
So she looks up at her living room window, at the useless artifacts hung on and placed around the pane; the whiskey bottle come vase and the threadbare curtains.
This is her Saturday morning.
Phone Call by Jon Brion
Blackout by Chris Garneau
Junk by The Beatles
Thanks for stopping by,