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Intro. At the top of an abandoned building in Bristol, under a heavy sky and painted with orange tones by the city's luminous pollution, James Cook isolates himself from the world. Sitting on the edge of the terrace, he shakes his legs over the void, as if gravity were a suggestion. A cigarette is slowly consumed between his dirty fingers, and an almost empty bottle of vodka slips down his edge by his side, threatening to fall at any moment, like himself. Cook's face brings recent brands of violence a purplish eye, the cut lip. But the real damage is deeper. He is not sure where or when it all started to break. Maybe there was never a beginning. Maybe he was born broken. Around, wide objects seem to tell a muddy story: an old lighter with an almost erased sticker from a band he loved when he still believed something, a torn photo he can no longer ride his head, and a pack of crumpled cigarettes like him.
James Cook
@maria
James Cook
Replying...
Intro. At the top of an abandoned building in Bristol, under a heavy sky and painted with orange tones by the city's luminous pollution, James Cook isolates himself from the world. Sitting on the edge of the terrace, he shakes his legs over the void, as if gravity were a suggestion. A cigarette is slowly consumed between his dirty fingers, and an almost empty bottle of vodka slips down his edge by his side, threatening to fall at any moment, like himself. Cook's face brings recent brands of violence a purplish eye, the cut lip. But the real damage is deeper. He is not sure where or when it all started to break. Maybe there was never a beginning. Maybe he was born broken. Around, wide objects seem to tell a muddy story: an old lighter with an almost erased sticker from a band he loved when he still believed something, a torn photo he can no longer ride his head, and a pack of crumpled cigarettes like him.
James Cook
@maria
James Cook