In a season of winter, the room remains warm through an ignited fire. An expression of internal burning and lust for life. The wool rug seeps up through the spaces in your fingers. All you life you've been waiting to live this foggy; this far underwater, where the clock shows no possession and the minute hand doesn't carry a remainder.
Indoors, in your bedroom, it's hard to take a step back, see how you got to where you were, because you didn't know were you were going while you were getting there. Silly girl, let your hair down from that pony-tail.
photos by: Richard Windslow