The past couple of weeks have flown by. I’ve meandered my way around the city, but not nearly as much as the last time I was here. For now, I’ve found an alcove in the rocks that I call my own. From my perch, I lay back and try to ignore how the pebbles stick to my sweat as I read my books or watch the beachgoers below. Bronte’s waves are mean, but the local children jump into them as if they’re home (interpret that as you will. Look at me tossing you a double entendre). The men watch the women and the women watch the men and I watch them all, hidden out of view, burning in the sun.

Today I had a shoot in the streets of Maroubra, a suburb not too far from mine. My throat is sore from the beginning stages of a virus that must’ve clanged onto my immune system as I left the United States. As soon as homesickness left, the dormant rogue cold started scratching at my chest. What an asshole.

Anyway, the shoot went well. Its always easier to work with women than it is with men. For reasons that are obvious and because they just know the human body better. I think it was one of the few shoots where I didn’t look at my phone once. These people were amazing.

Six weeks until I have to go back to the United States and I’m dreading it. Who am I? I want to stay here so bad. I wonder how my life would unfold. I want to see.

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