"Abandoned Places" - 2018 Campaign


- Photos by Jesus Soto

- Words by M.P Wills

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Dear Jordan,

I had another dream. The same one. When I slept last night, I dreamt of the  first   time   you  took   me   to  discover   ice   at   a  frozen   lake;  that splintering pattern that grew under our feet. We laid on our backs, our faces etched to the sky, and upon its marvel, I saw two wonders perched on a snowflake. Yours and mine.

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I have found my bed sheets becoming the smell of old chlorine, and the hot afternoon sun makes my dreams  lucid; but in  them  there  are  two herds of Deer,  running  across  a  valley.  I think you are one of them. I don’t  know  what  they  are  running  from, but the valley seems to sink between the bonnet of a crumpled car and that abandoned crematorium you once took me to. Why did you count your fingers on the tarmac?

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I follow you into that place, up the staircase and the crusty plumage; you sip wine, but it falls right through you. I turn to see you but you have already gone into the other room. So I follow, drenched in that morphine they administered, opaque with salts from the space within two cubic centimetres of ocean water.

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If my mind had hands and a shard of charcoal to draw, you might have been a goldfinch. Or nine brown leaves. Anyway, you never leave that abandoned place. And then I wake up.

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