MOODBOARD: MR. JOHNSON & MACKENZIE KNIGHT. /// @alulars + @vitalphenomena
Plainly, clinically, as though the list is grocery items and not invasively, wholly about her: “You cry in your apartment's south-facing bathroom because you have no private room of your own. You think of your father. You think of him dead. You want to kill him. You prayed for it. When you unload the dishwasher, you count the knives. Your favorite color—” He clarifies, he simplifies, he elongates the word: “Green.” It is said less like a magician revealing her chosen playing card and more like a cooing parent enunciating the applied names of things to their infant. “Is five billionths of a meter. The same size of simple bacteria. Yet only one of the two appears commonly in your home.” His gaze slides to hers, fastens to it. “All of it is your life, Mackenzie Knight. Little of it is what you want.”