Flickr Friday

Words

Analog – Remorse squats at the rim of the glass, like washed up residue of the night. Drowned, sticky-silently in Sambuca, where sweet lies scratch the gorge, ere having dripped out of the mouth, bitter in its aftertaste. In your ear they fan out like mayflies on the window, while wind pushed the hair out of your brow.

Text by Anna Töws

Image © Mike Stacey

Image © Anna Morosini

Image © Franziska Ebert

Image © Tomás Gianelli

Image © Tony Katai

Image © Ting Cheng

Image © Leo Berne

Image © Rumano Power

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