"MURDER," He cried out in the night, words that cut like a bloody-tipped knife. Murder is in the moon, full and big as the pupils that dilate when the mood is right, the mood to annihilate like the nihilist waking inside with the lunar cycle. We walk on...we become like the tip of a gun, poised and ready, cold-blooded and fatally facing the inevitable end. We are one thing...or two things, we are all things (old and new things). We become what we see, we melt into three from two. But we only come out when the moon beckons, drawing us from sleep or deeper, in a fit of homicidal somnambulism beyond our control.
Photographs of Amber taken by Katelyn, Photographs of Katelyn taken by Amber. Styled in a collaborative effort. Photo manipulations photoshopped by Katelyn, edit by Katelyn.