I hammer on the front door with my fist and press the doorbell three times. I hear somebody coming down the stairs. A dark shape behind the nineteen-eighties frosted glass. A muttered curse.
Taken in early 2013.
Earth. Have you heard of it? It’s a planet. There’s so much water here that it falls out of the sky and drenches my fur.
I was still tired after my flight, and I was tormented by an unusually strong thirst. Those are the only excuses I can offer for my actions.
Some B&W shots I took about five years ago.
The venetian blind clacked against the window frame and waited, trembling, for the breeze to lift it again. When it did, shadows bunched and rippled along Simone’s legs, lingered at the hem of her skirt, and fell back to her ankles. A tide, rushing up a beach, and retreating.