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This is my studio for exploring my work. Consider these drafts.

Her fingers contain the oceans


Her fingers contain the oceans and her skirt billows as if in concert with the waves. What lies beneath I can only imagine. And I do. She brings the spinning globe to a stop. Is this a game or has her finger chosen her set course? The way her finger touches the globe seems so determined, but once again her face is lost in curls and I must guess her intention. And I hear a voice from the record player that says “she ain’t comin’ back again.”

by Balthazar Simões