Kazuko Nakane

It’s past midnight and the boy holds a flashlight steady in one hand while the other moves carefully on paper as he sits engrossed by the images laid out in the center of the book. He’s trying to get the curve of the tongue down just so before the tip of his pencil wears out to a blunt gray wash. When he’s got the tongue down, he faces a network of laces and eyeholes that suddenly appear to be too much a thicket of detail for his now quickly dropping lids.