Member-only story
The bed rotates.
Feeling crackling gears underneath over-washed sheets makes photographing you so much more surreal. The bed keeps rotating to the left. Bent mirrors reflect bent images. Everything is genuine when not recognized…
I am like a paper ship wiggling on waves. Nothing is straight in the creative process. And you either swing with it or you drown in it.
I hold darkness inside the chamber of my camera… I let your glow enter it one drop at a time. I am an alchemist in some sense. But no stone is produced. Only images.
You lick the mundane with ecstasy like images lick the past with the present.
Every image is a farewell kiss to the present… and the present is a caleidoscope of known and unknown.
Time rotates the universe. Bed rotates you. And I rotate with you…
