About This Thing (If You Can Call It That)

This isn’t a newsletter.
It’s a leak in a sealed tank. A scream into developer fluid.
A field note from the emotional darkroom, where the negatives whisper back and the light doesn’t ask permission.

We photograph boats and ghosts and bad decisions.
We whisper to gulls. We spiral in cinematic aspect ratios.
The Hasselblad hates us. The ocean keeps calling.
The tripod left weeks ago. Took the charger. Didn’t leave a note.

If you want sea-stained confessions, haunted sandwiches, photo essays that taste like rust,
and dispatches from a cursed Peli case full of light leaks and guilt—
then subscribe. Or don’t.
Bob the Moth has already judged you.

Buy us a beer — for edits, regrets, and stove-based rituals.
Buy a print — for walls that need salt and wounds that need framing.

This ship is going down beautifully.
Get in.

If you find the spool I left beneath the ferry dock, don’t open it. Not yet. Wait for the gull with the red thread. You’ll know.
Develop in silence. Safe light only. No fixer. Burn the third frame. Frame the seventh.
Tell the sea I’m still listening.
It knows what it did.

If the mirrors crack, it wasn’t me. The teeth in the contact sheet aren’t real unless you name them.
Slide the print under the door before dawn. Don’t knock. Don’t look at the frame that hums.
If the tide speaks in threes, bury the lens. Bury your name.
The soft light is not forgiveness. It’s bait.