Every photo has a story:
A day, infinite.
The color red.
Faint and universal and ours.
Bed.
The reason why the light doesn’t meet.
Why we miss the perfect corner of light.
The right angle of a conceivably governing desire.
The wrong angle to this.
Darkness.
Sheets sound of wind traversing sand.
And a palpable crispness.
And a subtle murmuring of material.
Like a new auditory experience, not without invoking other senses.
Footsteps and shushes harmoniously intertwined, decidedly together.
Trained fingers tap the smallest back imaginable, the smallest area keeping open the possibility that it may be bigger than the entirety of everything else, inhaling awe, exhaling bliss, the most concentrated stillness known, resisting time, control, and resistance.
Accepting.
Exhaustion is the weight of my eyelids.
The realness of your content.
Telling me that perfection is always there.
