I scanned the editing room to see if there was a physical tell for an epiphany moment. Two young men in their early twenties, my classmates, were hunched down in a darkened cubicle, stubble across their chins, staring at the projection screen. The only thing on their horizon was their unfolding masterpiece. It must have been around five o’clock. The editing room was nearly silent. The population of campus was thinning out in anticipation of altered states and misadventures. At a maternal 29 I felt those days had departed, but something key had suddenly taken their place: I liked control and I liked the inkling of muscularity, the real labor it took to make even the smallest film. Call it an epiphany, call it a benediction, call it a curse. For me it was a – no, it was the turning point.