Dirty clothes, dishes, empty beer bottles, pills, torn pages from notebooks and scattered half-read books lay butterflied with arched bindings; the front and back covers fall and curve upwards to imitate the shape of a W.
Sometimes I wonder how I can live in such filth, disgusting trash ridden atmosphere, sometimes there’s even a smell. But then I look at those empty bottles, those torn pages and books and see good people. Books can be too much like people, it scares me. Looking one right in the face, right through the eyes. Its like a staring contest for hours, relentlessly decoding wrinkles on skin, words on a page, a voice. Maybe books are like people, and maybe that’s why so many of mine are unfinished. I’m afraid they will hurt me too....
Photographica
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