Mark Elijah Rosenberg

A miscreant father takes his 4-year-old son on a camping escapade . . . in New York City.

We lived a secret life, hidden from your husband--a romance of furtive meetings and a future eternally postponed. We stole a week to be together in France; I still could never film us directly, but in the textures and details of the city, I captured the tragic absences of our affair, infinite in the shadows, impossible in the open. Years later, I found these grainy old videotapes--faded like memory, feelings raw but transformed--and composed a love letter to who we once were, what we could’ve been.

Captain William Stanaforth is on a one-way solo mission to take the first steps in colonising Mars. Like all pioneers throughout history, Stanaforth will face insurmountable odds and life and death decisions as he rockets bravely through space.

Captain William Stanaforth is on a one-way solo mission to take the first steps in colonising Mars. Like all pioneers throughout history, Stanaforth will face insurmountable odds and life and death decisions as he rockets bravely through space.

A miscreant father takes his 4-year-old son on a camping escapade . . . in New York City.

A miscreant father takes his 4-year-old son on a camping escapade . . . in New York City.

A miscreant father takes his 4-year-old son on a camping escapade . . . in New York City.

We lived a secret life, hidden from your husband--a romance of furtive meetings and a future eternally postponed. We stole a week to be together in France; I still could never film us directly, but in the textures and details of the city, I captured the tragic absences of our affair, infinite in the shadows, impossible in the open. Years later, I found these grainy old videotapes--faded like memory, feelings raw but transformed--and composed a love letter to who we once were, what we could’ve been.

We lived a secret life, hidden from your husband--a romance of furtive meetings and a future eternally postponed. We stole a week to be together in France; I still could never film us directly, but in the textures and details of the city, I captured the tragic absences of our affair, infinite in the shadows, impossible in the open. Years later, I found these grainy old videotapes--faded like memory, feelings raw but transformed--and composed a love letter to who we once were, what we could’ve been.

We lived a secret life, hidden from your husband--a romance of furtive meetings and a future eternally postponed. We stole a week to be together in France; I still could never film us directly, but in the textures and details of the city, I captured the tragic absences of our affair, infinite in the shadows, impossible in the open. Years later, I found these grainy old videotapes--faded like memory, feelings raw but transformed--and composed a love letter to who we once were, what we could’ve been.