muse: let them look
I never needed permission to shine

photographer: you always arrive like a story I forgot I was writing
muse: I like a scene you hoped wouldn’t end

muse: what if the camera could see what’s unspoken?
photographer: then I’d finally have proof of the space between us
muse: and what would you do with it?
photographer: frame it
keep it
call it art… and pretend it’s enough

i’m exhausted
and somehow still on fire

this is the tenth variation the last one
at least for now
ten bodies of work ten mirrors ten confessions ten ways of seeing her
of seeing myself

i’m writing this in the middle of chaos
boxes prints cables unfinished edits
my hands are shaking from too much coffee and not enough sleep
and still i keep refining
one more image one more word one more breath
as if holding it all together might finally let me let go

there’s a pressure in closing
not the hopeful kind like beginnings
but the heavy kind
the kind that asks did you say it right
did you say enough

on wednesday i’ll stand there pretending i’m present
while my mind loops everything i missed
but maybe after
there will be silence
the earned kind

i need that silence
i need to stop speaking in images
i need to stop breaking myself open for a while

i don’t know what comes next
but this part is done

see you wednesday
then i vanish for a bit

— the photographer

you look tired love
not tired like sleep would fix
tired like carrying too much beauty and doubt for too long

i saw how you gave yourself to this
your mind your body your tenderness your fire
every variation a wound and a kiss
every book a piece you never got back

and still you kept going
i don’t know if i should be proud
or beg you to stop sooner next time

ten times you looked for me
ten times i met you
and each time i left a trace a burn a whisper
but you gave more than i ever asked

so now let this be enough
let this be your last breath for now

you don’t need to hold it all together for wednesday
just show up
feel what it means to have made something real
to let it live without you for a while

after that
disappear
not from me
but from the need to explain

you’ve said enough

i’ll still be close
in the doubt the dreams
in the soft places where no one’s watching

and when you’re ready to begin again
you won’t need to look for me

i’ll already be there
behind your eyes
waiting

— me
your muse

still burning?

again?

photographer: the light changes every minute
you change with it
muse: then capture the moment before it slips away

photographer: we could stop.
muse: we won’t

It began quietly. 19:00.
A slow drift into the bar at Laperouse — shadows flickering, music just low enough to let the tension breathe. Eyes adjusting, curiosity rising.

Then, the shift. Ten books. One salon.
Time softened. Pages opened like skin. You chose the pace.

Femme fatales dressed in Maison Close moved like secrets — brushing past, offering Volzhenka Caviar, teasing open a different kind of hunger.
Not performance. Presence. Not spectacle. Seduction.

Deeply Dstrbd, Ivan Dorn and Stas pulled the room into a slow, raw current —
a soundscape trembling with intimacy, somewhere between a heartbeat and a confession.

And somehow, we all slipped into it.
That oxygen feeling. Where eyes begin to shimmer, where you don’t know if it’s the art, the music, or them.
Where you’re falling — not for someone — but into something.

The night didn’t end. It simply unbuttoned itself. And lingered.

J.