Every 120 seconds the traffic lights on a busy intersection changes its colors. The cars that used to complete my composition suddenly disappear and a new combination of BMW and Lexus vehicles begin to fill the frame. 
All day long, I search for the perfect moment. A picture that captures the stressful faces of soccer moms in their Chevrolet Tahoes, and the deadpan expressions of middle school students trudging through the dry fall breeze. 
As I wait in my car for the streets to refresh, a young man, seated on the back of a public bus, catches sight of my camera. He laughs and waves. I wave back. The moment feels painfully long, and soon after its passing, I become uneasy, tangled in thought. 
This isn’t right. 
I’m not holding the camera any more, it’s propped on top of the dashboard, and suddenly I am lost. I ask myself the same question over and over again. What am I really trying to say?  
It’s hard, or maybe even impossible, to tell you exactly what inspires me to continue this body of work. But through the mysterious process of photographing, my conscious mind suddenly discovers a part of my subconscious. This is not about observing, rather participating. Past my half-exposed roll of suburban life and the goings-on of the ever-changing stream of people, is a single fear: I don’t want to be forgotten.

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