↓
There’s a smell of old lovers on my hands.
↓
“Schrödinger’s Gender: I exist in a superposition of gender; it is only by interaction with an outside observer that I settle into some semblance of male or female.”
↓
A music box was playing in the early morning. I heard the notes ride in on the wind. Galloping in on graceful stallions, weaving through posts and mailboxes and the crack under the door, struggling to be heard. There was a restlessness in their speed.
The earth was red. The sun rose, and it was dark once again.
A music box was playing in the early morning. I heard the notes ride in on the wind. Galloping in on graceful stallions, weaving through posts and mailboxes and the crack under the door, struggling to be heard. There was a restlessness in their speed.
The earth was red. The sun rose, and it was dark once again.
↓
I just want to photograph you.
It isn’t because you’re beautiful. It’s only because you’re you.
I’ve framed it in my mind…
…You’re taking a smoke break while we’re taking a walk. It’s dark where we are, save for the occasional street lamp. We’d have to be on an incline, so that the next street lamp is just far enough down the hill that it falls eye level to you. Your head is turned over your left shoulder. I step in front of you and put the viewfinder to my right eye, lining you up so that the street lamp is directly behind you, illuminating your silhouette. Small rays of light are displaced amongst your hair, the left side of your face, your lips. You’re smirking. The smoke is curling up to the left of you. You’re about to chastise me for taking pictures of you, and then I take it.
The truth isn’t in your eyes. It’s in your mouth.
I just want to photograph you.
It isn’t because you’re beautiful. It’s only because you’re you.
I’ve framed it in my mind…
…You’re taking a smoke break while we’re taking a walk. It’s dark where we are, save for the occasional street lamp. We’d have to be on an incline, so that the next street lamp is just far enough down the hill that it falls eye level to you. Your head is turned over your left shoulder. I step in front of you and put the viewfinder to my right eye, lining you up so that the street lamp is directly behind you, illuminating your silhouette. Small rays of light are displaced amongst your hair, the left side of your face, your lips. You’re smirking. The smoke is curling up to the left of you. You’re about to chastise me for taking pictures of you, and then I take it.
The truth isn’t in your eyes. It’s in your mouth.
