Photo by Scott Cooper

Bare feet hang like question marks; nowhere to go, no purpose. Man without wings, soul without breath, is latched to the chariot and drawn like a bucket out of a well. For a moment the sun explores his dark nose and lips. One bright eye gazes at him but without fire, without burning: it is more like a hot bath in January making his skin bubble into gooseflesh. One warm index finger gently lifts his chin and, by the tip, leads him upwards. The shoes on the ground are resolutely pressed into the earth as if to remind them of where they were and who they are. Becca Justice