moroswen

Skein after Yukio Mishima             She is not really sure when it began, she tells me. The studio is nearly empty, augmented by the absence of equipment and other photographers. Her voice is low but audible. There is something pleasant about its sexless frequency, the white throat just wide of feminine as she swallows. All her features toe the line of beauty the same way—dark eyes wide but sparsely lashed, crooked brows arching elegant but thick.             She'd had a sleeping disorder since she was a very small child. She tried various pills, sleep counselors, yoga, herbal treatments, everything she could get her hands on. But

dust motes suspended each grain a syllable drifting from my hand to the horizon