You track her down to her very first post. A photograph of leaves, laced from decay. You study the most intimate of details, trying to discern who she was back then.
Curves + damaged edges.
The way each piece is draped across the page.
You notice the missing prose.
It feels a bit cheeky. Looking behind the scenes of her history, tracing this woman's evolution. But you desire intimacy +
you take in each image with an urgent fetish.
You wonder which details caught her own eye.
Moving past each image, one by one,
a story unfolds about her ritual,
and there is a longing in your own soul to have the same.