We're spies, we're slow hands in the Los Angeles sunset. And the sky gets pink as you see the loving that you've wasted come raining from a helpless cloud. And I may stop and and look upon your face, and disappear in the sweet, sweet gaze.
I submit my incentive is romance. And I rejoice cause the hurting is so painless, from the distance of passing cars. Killer for hire. And then it occurred to me that my ambitions will never be sated, because as humans, there is also the thought that everything might be done better again.
bodysuit by Rehab
fur jacket by Diesel
sunglasses by Zero UV
photos by Ward Robbinson