three rounds and a sound

Things aren't all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe; most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that no word has ever entered, and more unsayable than all other things are works of art, those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small, transitory life.

drawings

permutations of Palace

repeat

Reunions

it's Wednesday and i am laying in the living room, i'm listening.

remember once i asked if you would read out loud to me.

mostly i just want to be a part of something beautiful.

walking into the washroom, my waitress was there and crying. "I'm just having a hard day."
it was eight in the morning. i ordered coffee and waited in the empty restaurant. it was silent and the sun, a deep orange on the clean bar top.

miles up and away, after only a few hours and he said, i've just met you and you are beautiful. and he was beautiful too. we all were, afternoon buzz and wide open air.
he was once addicted to crack. she was using me as a clean slate.
i was sitting back.

whiskey and rum, tea and toast

'Look at that hair, I sure had the biggest hair.'

foggy thinking

i have an aversion to cotton balls. they are like nails on a blackboard, to me.
stuck in the rental car in the fog for three hours, laying across the backseat, my whole body felt like cotton. dense and warm and stuck.

tiny toes in the ocean. cold ocean, woke me right up.