once, my best friend and I pulled off on the side of the road and explored an abandoned house. we left the car unlocked and wandered into the virginia woods and, all things considered, it wasn’t a paticularly wise adventure—but in the moment, it was perfect. the house was red, the sky was blue, and there were curtains with tiny flowers blowing in the open window; a tiny, lost garden printed on a fragmented piece of linen. the couches sat abandoned on the porch like a bunch of exhuasted old men; the screen door was ripped, fragile as a wedding veil.

now, I’m obsessed with exploring abandoned houses. and the poetry of the possesions left behind, the stories that are forced to befriend weeds that poke through floorboards and the graffiti of tramps.

this is the house. I love this picture; I don’t know if you’re allowed to say that about your own picture, but I do. I have lot’s and lot’s of ambitions for March, but first and foremost: ressurect the holga.