Like the sun, all stars find their way back round. Haunted in Manhattan. Listening to words spoken down in St. Marks after midnight. You cover your eyes, even at night. You wear tall black stockings and float on the subway. You’re hidden, but obviously hiding. The night awaits you, you meet a fancy cowboy in the back of a tea room in Brooklyn and listen to the stars. The likeminded artist, the kind soul and tainted spirit. You drink the sea and the solar system. You run rancid down the wide concrete because you can. You are infinite. You are infinity.
seeing stars lenon sweater by wildfox
sunglasses from Becon’s Closet
shoes by Jeffrey Campbell
photos by Jaglever