The Ball at the End of this World

Spades, you do like spades, you like them late, you carry on. Birds, and broken cages, and lonely songs, and avenues. Bubbles on the rack, inside hairy heads full of fairy snails. Human beings are lovelier with eyes closed, mouthes closed, do not touch. You do like spades when others worship hearts, and mellow breasts, and funky farts, and Kierkegaard. I am fool enough, to see some lights, to watch them shine, and make my eyes regret the first minute they were allowed to stay open. And this being said, I still believe, I still feed myself with beauty and crumbs of it. When my teeth are aching, when my blood goes cold, I keep on fighting to watch the end of the movie. To spare a day or two, before the night comes to eat me, before the curtain falls on my skin and says it's over. Now. I beg you (Catherine McNeil) to be my never (Txema Yeste who captured the delightful portraits above), because it's too hard to return. And no matter if these pictures from Vogue Russia, January 2015 are old enough to walk alone, we don't care, we're too young to die.