By Patrick La Roque
Reality no longer matters. Descriptions feel like a stranglehold, clarity too obvious, constrained. I keep aiming for blurred objects, ghosts, anything adrift and mindless. I want to crunch shadows into the abyss and bleed. Fuck detail and fuck beauty—photography's not a god damned technical drawing. It's the eye that swallows the world whole, stretching its furtive madness to a thousand years of deliberate scrutiny. I will reject control. I will not seek out perfection. I will not wait for stars to align.
If I lose myself I've succeeded.
Deconstruct to rebuild.
