A constant stream of smoke floating through my lips fueling my next thought. A constant flow of caffeine flicking my body through the motions. A constant flow of anguish flowing through my veins fueling my anger. A constant flow of hopelessness flirting with my impulse.
Big Night
Splinterheads
Basquiat
Seamless
Broken English
The scent of green papaya (mui du du xanah)
the girl on the bridge (la fille sur la pont)
patrik age 1,5
House of pleasures (l’apollonide souvenirs de la maison close)
the red balloon
cooking in progress
Tired. Can’t sleep. Slightly worried, slightly stressed, slightly confused, headache, wondering, wishing, craving macaroni and cheese and chocolate milk (not necessarily together), want to forget, want to remember, want to continue but there’s a road block. Want to explore, but first thing, a cup of tea—the whips of steam rising up to meet my eager face? Perfection. Beauty in the breakdown. Oh my darling summer. A stack of books next to me, laying out in the sun, bikini top and board shorts, soaking up the sun and the stories. Cruising about, windows down, music up. I think that evens it out roughly. Actually, it does so quite smoothly. Gliding down the highway, nothing behind you, nothing in front of you—just a smile on your face and freedom in your hair. Not a care in the world. If only. Dive into the direct exposure of the drafts of dreams and make them whole. Divulge into the most intimate crevasses of your imagination. Inspiration is not found, but rather created by a connection to the soul from reality. Colors swirling together in a glassy fog, brush dangling from fingertips nonchalantly hovering over the fate of a page. Small strokes snared by a textured thought wafting through an open mind. Translucently blending and bending and twirling together so that no experience will be lost. Fantastic nonsense suspended by unseeing hearts. Anatomically unequipped for the ordinary magnificence. When awake, dream lucidly, and dare to be distracted by the diversion life serves as.
