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You never know you're wrong until you see the blood on your hands
The Small Hours - Wonderful WorldEveryone is looking. Looking for what they can take, grab, steal, rip out, touch, inhale… exhale. Their bloodshot eyes are glaring through a blockade of dark forests, searching for the most powerful drugs. Their long hands with sharp claws are taking it all – the golden dust – and pouring, pouring into their pockets. What then? They run back home. They rush through the doors, glare around themselves to be sure that none of the relatives are here, and then… They spill all the golden dust and smear their faces into it. It’s falling on the floor through the hungry, voracious fingers of a kleptomaniac. The paradoxical taste of every feeling in the world – happiness, love, joy, anger, rage, sorrow, pity… Sugar on the tip of the tongue with a burning sensation on the back of the lungs. A thirsty glare for more; all the memories of someone are now running like a treasure hunter with a chest on a rod against him. Suddenly, doors open – father is back home. He looks at the moment, at the eyes of his sharp clawed younger clone, he sees every memory with a trace of blood and he drops with all his weight on the floor, trying to collect all the dust as if it would be a puzzle. The room is filled with gold on the floor and a briefcase near the ones who are intoxicated for the case of a vision. And then…

I shoot them.

Description
Like my photography on Facebook l Formspring l Last.fm l Tumblr

You never know you're wrong until you see the blood on your hands
The Small Hours - Wonderful WorldEveryone is looking. Looking for what they can take, grab, steal, rip out, touch, inhale… exhale. Their bloodshot eyes are glaring through a blockade of dark forests, searching for the most powerful drugs. Their long hands with sharp claws are taking it all – the golden dust – and pouring, pouring into their pockets. What then? They run back home. They rush through the doors, glare around themselves to be sure that none of the relatives are here, and then… They spill all the golden dust and smear their faces into it. It’s falling on the floor through the hungry, voracious fingers of a kleptomaniac. The paradoxical taste of every feeling in the world – happiness, love, joy, anger, rage, sorrow, pity… Sugar on the tip of the tongue with a burning sensation on the back of the lungs. A thirsty glare for more; all the memories of someone are now running like a treasure hunter with a chest on a rod against him. Suddenly, doors open – father is back home. He looks at the moment, at the eyes of his sharp clawed younger clone, he sees every memory with a trace of blood and he drops with all his weight on the floor, trying to collect all the dust as if it would be a puzzle. The room is filled with gold on the floor and a briefcase near the ones who are intoxicated for the case of a vision. And then…

I shoot them.