A long time ago, in a land far away–called Evanston–I lived in a dorm with a lot of wonderful people. We were misfits who tromped across town to get pancakes or burgers at midnight. (We sang songs from Rent as we walked, just to complete the nerd-ness). Some nights, we stayed up late talking in packs of 10 or 12, shouting theories about filmmaking across the communal living room. I got the sense that these conversations were everything, that they were simply not to be missed, even though I had zero to say about the aesthetics of Evil Dead 2. We were weird and snarky and silly.
Our realm felt so safe. I could say whatever I thought, and chances are, someone in the room understood me. I could fall asleep in the middle of those conversations and curl up like a puppy, just happy for the hum of voices overhead.
Somehow or other we all grew up, and became the creative professionals we once dreamed of being.
One of those people was Max, a documentary filmmaker who lives in Paris now, and he presents us all with a scene from a bench near the recent attacks.