All is solemn, still and shrouded in the serenity of semi-darkness.
In this surrealistic setting, you catch sight of a statue of a raven, regal, its beak wide open as if to cry out in warning.
Tina’s a tattoo artist.
A bouquet of dead red roses tied to a midnight-black diaphanous drape.
Butterflies, wings unfurled in kaleidoscopic glory, entombed under glass.
A skull gazing, eyeless, at a bunch of bottles of ink.
She has a Goth aesthetic.
And a black-clad woman with…
