One afternoon during the last week of March, I sat cross legged on the floor of my bedroom with a cardboard box, a stack of leftover paper and some string to bind myself a notebook. I wrote my first entry on April 3rd, my 25th birthday, and tried to make something in its pages every day after that. Shelter in place had been introduced a few weeks prior, and we were just beginning to settle into routines around staying at home and limiting our contact with those outside of our household. My room took on a different meaning, as did my house and my roommates. The act of inhabiting a space for extended periods of time made us reimagine its potential, its importance, its use.   

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Taking photographs was difficult at first, so I turned to the copies of old photos I had printed and stored under my bed. Dissected, decomposed and refurbished, they became something new. Now, stuck onto pages alongside free form words, these are a document of the days, weeks and months that passed in between then and where we are now.