it is the end of the world somewhere in an old empty house.
there are polaroids and vinyl records all over the place and there are dried flowers but if you look closer you see that everything is covered in sawdust and the wallpapers are peeling off.
a girl is strolling through the rooms but she is barely touching the ground anymore and what looks like glitter in her pale hair is actually gossamer.
you are not to break the silence.
there is a knowing and there is something that cannot be changed.
none of the clocks are ticking.
you see the girl's eyes looking through you dark like empty frames and you know.
there is only wakening because her bed is haunted, and then there is sleeping because she can't face her thoughts when they're burned by sunlight.
she's not ready to be chained, not ready to be weighed, not ready to wake up, not ready to sleep.
at night she runs like there's a bullet in her back, runs, runs in the pale moonlight untill her skin is just as milky, fading against the forest background.
then she'll lie down somewhere in the damp grass under the sorrowful stars to wake up on her doorstep in misty mornings, carried home by white wolves.
pictures courtesy of marie zucker.
there are polaroids and vinyl records all over the place and there are dried flowers but if you look closer you see that everything is covered in sawdust and the wallpapers are peeling off.
a girl is strolling through the rooms but she is barely touching the ground anymore and what looks like glitter in her pale hair is actually gossamer.
you are not to break the silence.
there is a knowing and there is something that cannot be changed.
none of the clocks are ticking.
you see the girl's eyes looking through you dark like empty frames and you know.
there is only wakening because her bed is haunted, and then there is sleeping because she can't face her thoughts when they're burned by sunlight.
she's not ready to be chained, not ready to be weighed, not ready to wake up, not ready to sleep.
at night she runs like there's a bullet in her back, runs, runs in the pale moonlight untill her skin is just as milky, fading against the forest background.
then she'll lie down somewhere in the damp grass under the sorrowful stars to wake up on her doorstep in misty mornings, carried home by white wolves.
pictures courtesy of marie zucker.
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