Pictures were taped everywhere.
It wasn't a dinky little hobby as some would make it out to be- it was a god damned, full blown out passion.
It was also a coping method.
It didn't matter how shitty they were, how many he took, or the hours he spent developing them in his dark room- so long as his hands were busy and his mind didn't stray, couldn't stray, without fucking everything up he was fine. So long as he had that steady clicking of the button and everything from pinning them up finally to working on the next batch, he could continue lying to himself. Convince himself truly, or as truly as he could manage;
that he was okay.
He could convince himself for just a little longer, for another hour and then another and another and another.
It was alright.
He could wait this out, at least until he was ready to face it.
(If he ever would be.)
The picture taking process numbed him, soothed him, cleared his mind of unneeded thoughts.
It was going to be ok.
Just one more.
(Click.)