Member-only story
Sometimes I imagine that the room we’re in – whirls silently in space. Like an apple in that song by Dusty Springfield. Oh, what a song – bright and sad just like you.
Maybe it is all this spinning that makes us drunk and heavy. We get sucked into honesty, like heavy stones thrown into the ocean.
– – –
Prints lay on a table like dry seeds waiting to be delivered to soil. Yet they stay on my table untouched. I have problem with sharing my personal work. It takes so much effort…
I was writing half a day about my relationship with masters of photography – but words don’t connect. I am only good for small poetical notes today.
I have a feeling I shared this image before. But I don’t care.
