Cynthia E. Wood:
Magic kite (moon)
Cynthia E. Wood:
The Block (Judd's residence)
Cynthia E. Wood:
Don't mess with Texas!
Cynthia E. Wood:
Metal heart; cold, hard lips
Cynthia E. Wood:
Plain and simple
Cynthia E. Wood:
Soldier B
Cynthia E. Wood:
Dust to dust
Cynthia E. Wood:
Pixie hanging
Cynthia E. Wood:
Arrested development
Cynthia E. Wood:
True love
Cynthia E. Wood:
The potato eaters
Cynthia E. Wood:
Who said love doesn't grow on trees
Cynthia E. Wood:
Hunky Jesus
Cynthia E. Wood:
Diacritic
Cynthia E. Wood:
s[n]ip
Cynthia E. Wood:
No such thing as too much
Cynthia E. Wood:
Room 220 (#4 of 13)
Cynthia E. Wood:
Home sweet home again (#13 of 13)
Cynthia E. Wood:
...like I need a hole in my head
Cynthia E. Wood:
Get your kicks
Cynthia E. Wood:
Lucky [00]7
Cynthia E. Wood:
Killing time
Cynthia E. Wood:
Not art. (According to at least one young tourist who snidely-loudly-incredulously asked her parents as they walked by me when I was taking this shot, "Stacked plastic chairs is ART?") Ohmygawd, like totally.
Cynthia E. Wood:
Profound truths from The Book of Life
Cynthia E. Wood:
Seamless
Cynthia E. Wood:
Something to remember her by
Cynthia E. Wood:
Someone gave me this
Cynthia E. Wood:
This is your brain on drugs.
Cynthia E. Wood:
It occurred to me that forks are designed to look like hands, the very things of which they are an extension...
Cynthia E. Wood:
Tentative
