i’m nearly over and i’m nearly there.

MOODBOARD: shelley barks & harry du bois.

because it's supposed to be that way. she routinely removes useless memories when her storage banks get low. sometimes she files them away in a far-off cloud, never to be looked at again.

when she first stepped into existence, there were memories in her head. where did they come from? who manufactured them? do they feel any different to those that were created afterward?

hands that aren't his own hands—hands that have been pried on outside of his own hands. his own breath. his own sweat. coming to in strange windows of time—late night drives home, all red tail lights smudged and stretched into shapes.

BARKS & HARRY. /// @eyeshone + @bluedprints

elementary, my dear watson.

"your phone is here. your phone was there. it was probably in your pocket all night."

she looks somewhere distant, briefly.

is she completely missing the point? or is he?

"why did i go at all?"

what he means is how. he doesn't expect her to answer.

control feels through his pockets. his phone is in the back right one: he leaves it there.

matter-of-fact. certain.

ironically, her brain is far more susceptible than control's. a little memory loss here and there is par for the course. maybe that's why she can be so blasè about it.

but she's right. there are others things in there. miraculously. they blur, unnamed, but they are there. long days of it. a childhood. first kiss. paperwork.

his name. hers.

He built this place, out of snow.

"Come in," he welcomes, "take a seat." He's already half-cut, you can tell by his reddened eyes, and sleepy demeanour. He has fashioned a sort of shelf, a block of compact ice, which he's lying on, drinking, he motions to the throne he made, an arm-chair in the wall. There is no fire, but it is still warmer than outside.

Wind howls in the pitch black.

"this is some place, jimmy."

her breath comes out in little clouds. she's in her winter boots and the walk up here still sunk her to almost the knees. weighed down by carrying an aluminum foiled casserole dish in both arms, her hands crept up inside the sleeves of her jacket. figured he wasn't eating.

"it's broccoli chicken. i put potato chips on top."

ta-dah! the great unveiling. she sets it down in the snow. testing out the weight-bearing abilities of the lump of snow—the throne—he's made. shudders a breath, clicks her teeth.