I want to you to photograph me in black and white in a dilapidated room in a house of grime and neglect. I want you to capture my bones and skin and eyes and hands and shackles and terror. I want you to capture my scapula poking out, so much that they shear the last of these walls and my clavicle decorating the superior of my chest, like a soldier coming from the cold war. I want you to capture the last of my sheets of paper, blank canvases, rotten brushes, and decaying sage. I want you to capture the shadows of grey, the sliver of shame. I want you to pour me vodka because I despise the taste of ale and pretentious poisons. I want you to press the shutter now before the demons crawl out of my head.
I want you.