I saturate myself in the pleasure of taking everything in—when I practice acknowledging the noteworthiness of the day, I often forget I have woken up at all. My photographs are of the parts of the world that merge the gap between opening and closing your eyes for too long: fragmented bodies, remnants of existence, and questions if there was ever anyone there. They are unprompted, like the idea I jot down sleepily when I wake up in the middle of the night; they are the final breath I take before I leave a place, the remnants of an extra shutter after the initial shot has passed me by. They are one last thing, my parting words. I ask you to remember when you turned to face the sun and let it kiss you without wishing for more. Sometimes, that is enough.