SMOKE SHOP

WHITE PORSCHE. SMOKE SHOP. TATTOOS.

All that's missing is someone suggesting we probably shouldn't stay too long.

California. Hard midday light. The shop is ordinary, the tattoo sign half-faded, the asphalt has seen better days. And right there sits the Porsche, as if it has never belonged anywhere else.

Seen from another car, the scene feels stolen. Like there is just enough time to take the picture before someone asks what exactly you are doing.

SMOKE SHOP does not need a coastal road or a sunset.

Sometimes a Porsche only needs a questionable address.