photo diary 11

I cast spells on paper and candle wax and wonder if the howling of the wind will ever fade. Last night I dreamt of the buttery theater lime-lights and the red velvet seats. How much does it take to forget where we came from? How long does it take for the wind to seep into your skin and chill you down to the marrow? I sing songs to lost and lonely graves and dance in the moonlight, feeding the dead with dried flowers and the strawberries I refused to eat for my petit déjeuner.