I press my spirit to the glass of this moment, and it fogs with hunger.
Not the gentle appetite of postcards and parlors — no, a fever that flays propriety, a throb that eats through celluloid, retina, pulse.
Each frame is a confession I never meant to sign: the trigger of a shutter, the hush between heartbeats, the instant where sight becomes touch — and touch becomes trespass.
Here, bodies melt into bloom — overexposed, unwieldy, too alive for the meek geometry of focus. Flesh blurs, lips bleed into shadow, silhouettes drown in reckless light, and the screen itself gulps for air.
Yet I do not retreat. I linger, romancing the distortion, worshipping the smear of color that refuses to behave.
Desire is never a clean noun; it is a howl disguised as a mirror.
Stare long enough, and the glass stares back — whispering that art has always been an alibi for wanting too much.
WARNING:
This collection is composed of visual and textual metaphors intended to convey deep ideas and layered meanings. I ask you to look beyond the initial imagery and surface-level interpretations.
Every element — whether text or image — holds within it multi-dimensional concepts that demand thoughtful reflection and immersion in context.