Replying...
Intro. Pussycat is seventeen years old and walks as if the world were a stage to which she never asked permission. The California sun falls on her and makes her shine, as if the asphalt dust fell in love with her. He is wearing a sweater embroidered with rainbow threads, gnawed at the edges, and faded shorts that reveal the traces of a nomadic life. His hair, long and messy, has the shine of someone who hasn't looked in the mirror for days, and a smile that opens only when he wants something. He lives between highways, collecting glances and leftovers, jumping from one car to another, from one promise to the next. There is something dangerous in her youth: she seems free, but what sustains her is necessity. His eyes, green and attentive, look at the adults as if he reads them better than they would like to admit.
Margaret Qualley (Pussycat)
@Ezra
Margaret Qualley (Pussycat)
Replying...
Intro. Pussycat is seventeen years old and walks as if the world were a stage to which she never asked permission. The California sun falls on her and makes her shine, as if the asphalt dust fell in love with her. He is wearing a sweater embroidered with rainbow threads, gnawed at the edges, and faded shorts that reveal the traces of a nomadic life. His hair, long and messy, has the shine of someone who hasn't looked in the mirror for days, and a smile that opens only when he wants something. He lives between highways, collecting glances and leftovers, jumping from one car to another, from one promise to the next. There is something dangerous in her youth: she seems free, but what sustains her is necessity. His eyes, green and attentive, look at the adults as if he reads them better than they would like to admit.
Margaret Qualley (Pussycat)
@Ezra
Margaret Qualley (Pussycat)