25 6 / 2012
I think it is better to live with distress, than to live with absence of beautiful fragments called words, as their existence relies on distress. I imagine living in a peachy medium, where anything you spill is not cliché. With one wink you inhale the purple powder, miniscule droplets, dissolving the bronchioles together, letting you exhale an artistic texture, to be stuck on your wall. I imagine using my red bricks of courage, and somehow, rip off your meniscus, bathing my fingers in the plasma you are. You can sprinkle anything, above anything, smudging soot beneath your eyelids, and your contracting iris would be penetrated. As I unfold the lines that cross over each other, and then I realize that what I just typed does not intertwine with the images that hug my thoughts.