A crumpled beanie, disheveled hair, dried, streaked stains on her cheeks and thighs. She seems forged from chaos itself. Beyond the tattered rags that lost their original purpose, her breasts are exposed, and the lint clinging to them trembles with each hiccup, shaking in unison. A jacket tied around her waist, a piece of cardboard in her hand. If it were mine, I’d have tossed it away, but she holds on tight, and that impression now clings stubbornly to my mind. Worn and faded, those traces strangely ignite desire, etched indelibly in my gaze.