I’m in between jobs, so I’ve been using my days to take photos while wandering the city. I suppose I’ve been making up for lost time in San Francisco. I moved here in 2009 on a fellowship to write fiction. In the cocoon of my apartment, I typed away at a novel that looks a little hopeless at this moment, obsessing about the lives of fictional people and subsisting on nicotine tabs and Blue Bottle coffee. That’s the logic of a fiction writer: move to one of the most beautiful international cities in the world just to become more of a socially awkward hermit than ever before. Set the clocks and name the streets in a contrived fictional world, yet ignore the streets outside, the ones with very real people.