Erautism

I'm losing even what I've never had, in a grin, in a simple glimpse. No more salty water drips from the eye, only coaldust flying from lashes to the heavy air of the room. Not many lights still burn and the smooth smell of smoke floats around like a river flows around the rocks, moving in circles, curls, curves. Shadows are our shadiest shelter, the comfort zone never to be taken for granted or real as all tricks may be lurking around the dead angle next door. Darkness, though, fuels our lust for colors, for lids-closed fireworks and neon-bright delights, when every whim or wish is to find the tiniest loophole that would allow us to escape the deep grey reigning from floor to heaven. It's during pitch-black nights that never promise an upcoming tomorrow, when we're feeling glum as bums, that the need for flashy fixes like the four above sounds like an emergency. And here comes Lindsay Wixson, full of witty humour and fantasy, as a colorful overdose. With the help of photographer Daniel Sannwald, stylist and creative director Yann Weber, and Antidote Magazine.