Rooftop film, Fela, and late light

Vinyl scratch of Fela on repeat up here on a Mexico City roof. Espresso gone cold beside the Leica, the tiny gold camera keychain catching the last orange of dusk. City smells like fried plantain and gasoline and I'm smiling because the light is doing what it does — finding edges.

Met a man at the gallery who kept trying to fit me into a shape he recognised. He watched, then laughed when the film strip told a different story. Love being looked at by someone who's been looking; makes me want to hand over the camera strap and see what happens next.