dwelt in the cool comfort of the inbetween.

water drops perched, weighing down the tinsel of the brush.

mystic.

catching light, catching life.


i was someteen. i was 5.

i remember the discomfort of seeing so far into a tunnel painted black so young.


so temporize.

im moving past that feeling.

we walk with chests confidant with oxygen.

decortication finds a corner in malaise. no sunlight. anymore
when we walk with chests filled with oxygen, i climb to the summit of a breath, precarious and naive in realism.

a water drop atop a thicket, to be swallowed by the sun.