This morning, I went out early for breakfast and bento goods and took the camera along. It was bright already at 5 am but the streets were relatively deserted. I passed trucks waiting to deliver goods to the grocery store, elderly couples out in matching track suits, swinging their arms twice as fast as their legs were going. I stood beneath a tsubame’s nest and watched the parents dive into the river and return to the little mud cone that held six chicks with big triangular mouths that gaped into a wide diamonds when the parents called out to them.

Then, sitting on the crumbling concrete steps that lead down to the river, I watched a pair of cormorants dance, wings outstretched, drying their feathers as they no doubt discussed the morning’s catch. And I thought about Knausgaard and creative frustration and how the problem lies with how the creative process is packaged and sold to us by those who have no idea what they are talking about, well-intended hawkers of myths. We waste so much time, running head-on into these walls of expectations, built by the ignorant.