It's half past two in the morning, and I'm shooting again.
Lulled by the gentle mechanical shivering of my motorhome perch, I'm watching the lunch tables twitter with workaday chatter. Even though it's at the painful juncture of late and early, everyone here shares a surreal sense of normalcy, bolstered by the standard set of rules we hang these projects on: I arrive, and in six hours I eat. My timecard is there, my tools are here, the trucks are over there.
The second assistant director is singing Led Zeppelin to himself in the client room and shuffling SAG contracts, and I'm nipping at a spoonful of artichoke dip.
It'll be nice to get home.