Can I metamorphose quietly? I wipe the sleep out of my eyes and check again: my fingers still let the dark fall through. I once read that if you make a habit of looking down at your hands during the day, you will continue to do it while you are dreaming too. But dreams are unforgiving and the hands you see will be grotesque and you will shudder. I shut the curtains and hold myself. I stroke the moth and feel its fuzz, I touch the butterfly and it shatters.
Photos/writing by Nolan Boomer and Jose Gallego