23JUL
The corridor after the show smells like ozone and other people's perfume. I lean against the wall where the cables cross, and for thirty seconds, I'm no one — just a man in an unbuttoned shirt, catching his breath. The flash from a photographer's test shot catches my sleeve mid-adjustment, and I think: this is the only proof I need that I was here, that I showed up fully, that the storm passed through and left this quiet behind.
Mood: serene aftermath