A wormhole to desire.
So this is what it feels like. Ok, thanks for the update.
The want, the want not, the apology, the interim to never again.
And beyond. Wow, that’s a long way down.
But, can we pretend?
Hi Victoria. I know several of your secrets.
I have several bags. Far too many. A big green one, fully waterproofed, LL Bean. Then a blue one for my laptop: blue ballistic nylon and black neoprene: for expansion, Head Porter. And many smaller, one for my camera, one for business cards, one for pens and pencils—another a random catch-all, perhaps for a passport. Some might say, “hey you have a lot of bags.” On the other hand, I think, “I just need protection, with every layer.” Sure that might seem OCD. However, as I look at it, I just have a high probability of getting dirty. Too late when you’re caught in crossfire.
We are all on “borrowed time.” How long would you like to extend your stay?
Mix me into a blender with seersucker, a submariner, a gray tee, white chucks, camo cargo pants, a denim jacket, and a black scarf—with white polka dots—plus some errant skulls, and an iPhone: you’d more or less have me. Just transport, the contents, in something black. And industrial. Just trying to be appropriate.
Always. A. Little. Off. Beat.
Staring is caring.
Mixed media has media—all mixed. Concentration is impossible. Distraction is the new focus.
Fewer walls, more windows. Please.
Can you please move? I’m trying to see. And you’re just looking.
After all, if it’s not battered, it’s frayed. Well, at the very least, very worked out.
But not tired.
