The July sun bakes the sidewalk as I frame a girl in a plaid satin slip dress, her tiny backpack bouncing against her spine as she digs for a stack of Pogs. A group of guys in oversized flannels loiter by a shop window, eyeing a sleek display for the upcoming Windows 95 launch while arguing over whether this new DVD format is just another lame gimmick.
I adjust my lens, capturing the tactile grit of the city—the rough texture of denim against the smooth, shiny tech brochures promising a world of Java and something called eBay. The air hums with the distant bass of “Waterfalls,” blending with the heavy scent of hot asphalt and cheap exhaust.
Memories from that day
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