Crown, Landfill, Noon

He found the basket before we got to set. I did not ask where. The mirrored lenses were mine; the rest was his own choreography — gold mesh at the throat, camouflage at the hips, red at the ankles, every object pulled from what the island had thrown away.

Nothing here is costume. It is refusal, styled. When I look at this frame I still hear the smoke before I see it.