My eyes are a camera. When I was a young boy eight nine ten years old, I’d keep my left eye close to the wall, at eye level as if I were a living breathing Steadicam, my right eye closed, an eternal tracking shot, my left eye forever open, the score always in the background, the score I had written on a one hundred dollar Casio. I pan down the hall, to the left, past the bathroom, Mama’s room, into my bedroom, I pivot and the left eye closes and the right eye opens, it’s seamless, undetectable by the human eye, a marvel at 50 FPS, my tiny bedroom a diffused here and now, Mama’s voice coming to me from the kitchen – Nathan, what are you doing? Nothing, mama! The camera finally telescoped into a close-up of the Snoopy plush on my bed, resting on my pillow, excited to see me, the director of everything. You’re a daydreamer just like your daddy was, Mama says. The world isn’t kind to daydreamers, Nathan – remember that.