The beautiful and ethereal model lay on the bare back of the white spotted horse, her face lain against the dark mane.
Her middle rose and fell, the flank of the horse expanded and withdrew, two living things breathing and warm, under a hot summer sun.
The photographer took the pictures of the model and the horse, her upon its back, her gently leading it in the arid steppe, it eating out of her hands.
The shoot was for an ad for a luxury brand, to be printed in a glossy papered fashion magazine, selling an empty idea.
The model stroked the neck of the horse, talk softly to it, fed it again from her hands.
The horse nuzzled her face, felt calm as she stroked it, felt content with the warmth of the evening sun on its back.
A mercenary shoot, selling glamour and youth and beauty for useless baubles.
But the model and the horse were living things, and connected as souls, content in the realm of the senses.
When the mercenary ad was published, some of that pure and holy light shone through.
I touch my fingers to their images in that glossy papered fashion magazine, and remember, holiness still gets in.
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