the scratch family

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III

I live ten minutes by foot from Ethan Allen’s resting place. I locked my camera on its most ethereal setting and hoped a spirit or two would lope into frame. It’s a little surreal to know that one of my state’s best and brightest lies reduced to dust just yards from me. We ¬†all get there eventually. In death, you’re not special.

XVIII

Under my steely lens, I felt more gothic than I have in months. Josh and Holly were happy to oblige my urge to capture the day. Turning my friends ashen and fierce felt wonderfully subversive: the alive playing shamelessly at death, appropriating the crumbling corpses we’ll one day become? Sign me up.

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