autofocus raze the most meaningful mechanism that lives inside the lens you lean on every day has gone rogue. it refuses to focus unless fully retracted or extended. there are no more shades of grey. only absolutes. you give up the glass you know so well and turn to a telescoping third eye that's been put out to pasture. it sees what you want it to see, though not without some degree of sacrifice. the cost is clarity. better to exist in extremes than walk through a washed-out scene that blurs when it blooms. you creep across unclean carpet searching for the sawn-off body of the camera you've disconnected from its sole source of light. it isn't anywhere you might have left it. you think you must be losing your mind. you curse the cadence of your canter and the breath that brought you here. it takes you so much longer than it should to remember what you're looking for is slung around your neck, digging its ductile chin into your chest. 251215 what's it to you? who go blather from