I've fallen, almost, into the same trap I always do. I come home late and by the time I've eaten dinner and settled in, I'm tired. I don't want to shoot or I don't know what to take photos of. It isn't easy to get into the rhythm of daily photography when I often am not really doing anything, and I have to search a subject out in my apartment so I don't get sick of my own face looking back at me from the camera screen. (No wonder so many 365s are largely self-portraiture; if you don't want to do still life, what else can you do?) So I search the still lifes out. The most artfully arranged things in my home are my makeup and perfume collections, so those begin to appear more and more.
And I remain, largely, by myself. Jonas comes and blankets New York in an unexpected two feet plus of snow, and I don't venture outside until Monday, when the streets have mostly been cleared and I've spent too long cooped up inside. I take my camera to a coffeeshop and take note of all the litter stuck into mounds of snow like it'll melt away with the sun too. It could be artful, so I try to make it into art. Hard to forget that the snow will be gone and the coffee cups will still be there, though.