The light between the left and the right
The space between thought and sight
The place we meet between
In between, heart beats
I love you there.

The place where dreams awake
Where form meets shape
Mind scapes, clouds pace
The dreamscape
I love you there.

High, horizons
Sky’s of vicinity
The meeting place
Four a.m. type
Writer, to my infinity
I loved you there.

And if there was eternity,
I’d love you there, again.

Kaleidoscope Tears


Headlines to believe and no research to make
Narratives to believe and opinions create
Falsity of reality
Can’t see
Lazy, likes to hype
The raw raw
The banter
Blinded attitudes
Phony high school on a collective level
Repeated narratives
Construct on construct
Time we make
Space we create
Headlines we fake
To believe to disbelieve what doesn’t really exist
Out of touch
Kaleidoscope tears
Can’t look
Can’t participate
The higher collective
No one is awake

Not left not right
Higher to decide
Puppets and this is the theatre
Intermission and the dramas
Collective cheerleaders
Mindless outwardly
It’s inward
It’s inside
Be your own
Own self
Own mind
Own your own mind
Not the collectives rule and
Propagated tag lines
Kaleidoscope tears
Where do we go
Is inward only the place
The collective
Can’t participate
No one is awake

Sorry, Not


Sorry I dress like a Western Balenciaga
And come to school like the new Dior
Margiela is my spirit animal
What are you looking at me for
For your next idea
Or to project your own hate
Own her own, amazing?
Professor can’t even grade me
Friends really disgrace me
What does it take to get a little
Is the entire world unhappy?
Educational institution
Sit on me
Paying to be put down
Paying to push me around
Turn around to friends
Can’t be found
Everyone just wants to take
With no credit on where it was found
Copy my identity
Curly bangs, poetry
Dallas you’re a petty D
Elevated West look at me
Going to the galleries
Art is speaking
Make the daily amazing
Writing’s what saves me
Can someone just praise me?
Hold my head
Stroke my hair
And share some fucking love
And see
It’s a reflection
All a reflection of energy
Artistic integrity
Discrimination of talent
Follows me
Can someone just praise me?
Hold my head
Stroke my hair
Lift me up so I can better be
Do I really only have me
Push through the mud
Stick it to the Man
The Man’s a baby!
Position of power
Everyone wants their own authority
Dauntless air
I’m going to the galleries
I’m going for a PhD
I’m going for Forbes 30 under 30
I’m going for Psyche B
Comfort Titties
Art installs
House on a hill
Some cute fucking babies
Arianna Alexis
So sit back and watch
And copy
And hate me
For being
Sorry, not.



If there is no question
To answers for other dimensions
Body as the existential ground of culture
A practical phenomenon
Nakedness be our only truth
Is the nude as close as
We get too
Is there no question for answers of truth
Is truth whatever reality you succumb too
Is dress realities costume?
Fashions fashion of theatrical play
The fabrication of the everyday
Trying to escape
Trying to manipulate the downs of yesterday
Trying to pronounce beyond my inveigh
Trying to stay on a progressive pathway
Talent shows rebound
A ricochet
Dress up
Day to day
The modern ballet
Dance around this level of truth
Accept what’s laid in front of you
Words behind meaning it’ll never come too
Dress your best and swallow your virtue
Outsmart yourself and succumb too
Accept material of what stitches can’t purse through
Material culture, how hard too
Looking glass, I don’t want too
Behind the red curtain
Take a bow too
Conduct my own orchestra
It’s a lot too
Is truth whatever reality you succumb too
Put on dress
And repress
Realities costume

Ring The Day


I put on my rings everyday
Ring the day
White shell
Beige and
Black Zebu
Thick skin
Thicker to be alone
Are all of our interactions just an unconscious
Level of need
What do I need
What do we need
Where is the place we meet
Where is the place we meet
Ones self
Our self
I wake up and charm my self esteem
Adorn myself in clothing
Let it go today
Bathroom sink
Holds my rings
I twist them around my fingers all day
Thoughts of thoughts of
Thoughts cliché
I find the doorway
I run down the spiral staircase
To the mosaic
Tiled hallway
A wander down the street
Social display
Where is the place we meet privately
By oneself
I only have me
Where is the place we meet undeniably
My lovely
I only have me
Lovely, lovely
Arrived early
The worlds a lie
Living humbly
I only have me
Delighted me
Provided we
Scamper Springs patriarchy
Twist around my finger
Shall I play
The roll of consciousness
Of our everyday



Do we grow into wisdom
Or does authority over our age
Induce that sense of wisdom
Do we know anything
Convince ourselves of everything
Maturity follows my
Patience, everyone tells me
I wonder
As I grow
I age
Wiser, but
From confidence to wear the hat
Or is the hat attached?



Between the replay
Of thoughts of yesterday
A very present
Words betray wisdom
Tomorrow will not
Be today
Hearing what
You cannot say
I want to be your angel



Parisian parade  
Tan holidayed, laid
Everyones back, like today
Masks on their face
Even outside, conformity persuades
Midday and everyone’s back
Palais Royale
Fountain side packed
Wearing dusty blue jeans
White nipple tee and
Linen shawl wrapped around me
All of what summers seen
All of what summers left
Watching, it
Sickens me
We all have to be doing something
Back to the routine
Don’t think
If I wanted something
More elevated
Where would that be?
Here I sit
The seat of the spectator
Spectacles down my nose
Look past
What do I desire?
What’s all this anyways?
Anyways, if I could hire
A replacement to leave my mind
To not always have to see inside
Maybe I’d be fine
But, it’s alright
I’d just really appreciate a more quiet mind
We are all back and  
We are all wasting

Her Name Is Jane


Rows mowed
Green grass grows a
Bed for the chateau
Picnic set like old friends
Rolling clouds billow
Hillside rounds of country go
Blaze for thinking
She’s of another
Time of sorts
Fairytale frames
What the ordinary cannot name
Her name is Jane

Rosey brick
Cut stone holds the
Walls of the chateau
Terrace views
Instrumental tunes
Table cloth and china strewed
Lunchtime sitting
Table setting
Simple pleasures
She sits with class
And attitude

Witty generosity
Hosting frivolousity beckons
The beautiful chateau
Morning markets
Pickpockets, artfully
We still find silver
And bargains perfectly
Ride through town
Jane isn’t wearing her crown

Lavender greets
The mosaic table tiles
That circle the smokey chateau
Girls daze
Laughter ways
Deer skipping
Banter at bay
White cotton poplin
And linen frays
Talk of men days on days
Call her Queen J
Lavender fogs our way

Rows mowed
Green grass grows a
Bed for the chateau
Grapes land table side
The art of the countryside
Sunset greets an early evening for
Morning to train
Tea time for next time
As the curtains close for  
Jane’s all magic at the chateau



It’s like I knew Marseille before I even knew it. Beige washed cotton parades with a center seam dropped between the knees, haram drape and fray

Raffia bag and Turkish towels aide seaside from cliffs and high jumps with bites of apricots like pop corn watching locals peak off the rocks

A silver ladder cuts between the cliffs crashing waves and upper arm strength to lift all energy left of between sea mist only 4 days

Only 4 days, I’d really love to know Marseille the way people pave and make their path between dodge and center dissuade. The back road behind faded cream shutters, dusty beige, peach paved walls and shingles of clay

Different here
Different like yesterday

High sitting, I write from the circle center of Saint Charles train stationed hillside of pastel mosaic city line along sea foam green lamp posts that accompany the way

Whatever shade of green, I think of you. Two months of missing you. Living for me, wanting you, cannot wait, cannot wait spiral drives along the cliffs take me back to friendly banter.

Rental car and foreign highway, we find our seaside daily details meld of Portugal and Paris with Greece’s waves and New Mexico’s craters as we traffic towards Cassis.

Movie scenes of European summer frame. Laundry hangs from windows I must paint. A guitar strums last days tune of our holiday to name. Not a roadtrip but friendship journeys all the same. 

Waking up to Paris. Here again, another day.



Catching tears
Of surrender
White flag waives
Hainkerchief comforts
Edges fray, tied
Block stamp prints
Necks embrace
Only cotton sunflowers
Along window panes
Laundry dries
And wrinkles wane
Blooms for yesterday’s



What is of this
Not if other than because
Question and suffer
The whole of something
One of another
The melodic rhythm of an interpersonal spine
Internal benign
An all around planetary minus sign
Place or arrange
Sick of turning up from down
Freedom roam to run around
Trot across the horizon
Pass and go where heart feels fine
See friends and cross borderlines
Missing birds that take flight
Missing routes with no end in sight



Shortly after 6pm I am drawn to the Palais
Golden light as if it was early morning
Like my morning routine would be
If slow and shifted wasn’t
What is, is calm to the fountains fan
Dusty iron green
The park is of a scene
Limbs wrapped in each other’s
Set on benches a place
Conversation just
Solo sits with a wine bottle out but alone
Little feet wobble around a bounce
What if we were all out
Mirror of thought in
Retain or reception
Book pages turn text to attention
The pigeons find love in whims ascension
Routine in trunks of trees extension
Grounding, the gathered Royale
Sitting so sane
Routine rearranged
Gathering at the Palais Royale



To obsess
Let out
Vision repressed
Never felt compelled
To one hundred strokes
Mix and meld
What emotion provokes
Vision warped
And windows bend
The frames of canvas
Thoughts of mind
Surreal in wonder
Life to size
Stroke of life
To remise



Wet backside  
Laughing eyes
Water enclosed
Lucid bottle
Clearer innuendos
High hallucinogen
This is high
Look at you
Impetuous beauty
Beautiful ride
Fervid find
Blubbering blind
Can’t decline
Wailing laughter
Totality aligned
Blistering barren
Incandescent scent
Flourishing magenta
Head underwent
Eve’s apple
Big full glass
Chocolate bite
Desert shroom
Trippin white



She is quite social actually
She talks with coats and shapes haphazardly
Streets, passerby
Color flash and eyes array
Her voice is stitched
Center back
Fold and flip
What is small talk with voices
When voices cannot emit
It’s an internal conversation with the
Eyelids that lift, streets
And sidewalks
No time to talk
Attention in the pace of her walk  
I don’t want to talk above talk
I don’t want to run when I’d rather walk
Dialog on her back
Narratives almanac
Voices above voices
Sounds and word
I write it down to be heard
I wear it to be heard
Societies the mockingbird



Everything apart of me belongs to something else
Possession of oneself
My mind isn’t even free to roam without
The attachment to the mechanical machine
The chassis that holds my being
Everything is a belonging of something else
Jolt me
Roll me
Light me up to try to find me
I just want to be free

Everything apart of me belongs to someone else
Orchestrated life by the wave of
Global conductors here to disperse refractions of 
Previously reflected society
I’m just here, growing into what is of this society
Constitute me
Converse me
Conform to routine to find the
I just want to be free

Body running but mind behind me
Running circles around me
Out of body, wish I could be
Even my own body owns me
Machine, machine
Plug me
Pull me
Succumb to see
The mind is trapped in this frame we call free
We don’t even know
Third eye looking out for how to not be

What’s for me
That’s not for me
I’m just running inside a flesh made machine
Pushing buttons to satisfy my minds fantasy
Good lord, entity?
Define me?
Inform me?
I never really looked up to that type of sightsee
Hanging out on a wonky cloud of biblical potpourri
How to be?
Higher, being?
How to be free when my body owns me?



Twenty five, arrive
White fringe, trim
On the way
Arrive, everyday

Twenty five
Entry point in time
Exit youth
Entity online
Another photograph
Another frame
Another additive
The twenties archive

Critique, contrive
Fabricate, derive
The North Texas uproar
Rue’s, routes, and rounds in automatic drive
Counting counts to feel alive

Defend ephemerality
The act of display
Fleeting age
The act of subsistence
Upkeep, wage

The maintenance of existence
The head of existential dread
It’s all a thought
It’s all in colored thread
The threads that speak of what’s unsaid
Mankind mislead
High thoughts, widespread

Twenty five
Go ahead
Go to bed
Pencil, lead
Set, shed
Twenty five
Minds abed

Beaming, lucent
Radiant for the luminous
Life of success and vivid
Flaming, predestined
Brilliant insouciant

Twenty five, arrive
Calm down
It’s all ahead
Life is but an incandescent
Lambent red

Be Being


Bourgeoisie, sophisticated shit
Doubt steals dreams
Mind over matter, smoke a joint to quit
The everyday of the hamster wheel spinning play
On loup of reflections of 
Everyday, I wanna
Everyday I wanna be beyond being

So, ça va
So so, I make a list
Write, inscribe my dreams because
I don’t doubt what beings be when you can
See beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Propaganda imitates the negative
Voice in your head so 
I write a list to hear the dream
Written out instead

The convergence of an era when it’s 
Easier not to give a shit, shit.
We all shit, don’t sweat the small stuff
You’re such a stud, and 
I’m so hot when I think of you
I only check my phone to text read love notes for from you, phew.

Sublime everyday experience of being in a head
That floats atop a sphere of socially inflicted doubt
While the subconscious subject tries
To realign what society abides by

I wanna be, everyday
I wanna be everything that pops in my head
Without my own thoughts I’d be dead 
Like the side walk walkers that don’t question
What’s up or down, is ignorance bliss? I can’t not
Ask myself 

So I answer, everyday for myself
Because I wanna be beyond being in the mundane.
Social conformity is the pain.
Ordinary life is why people take cocaine.

But like I said
I’m already high in my head, thoughts
Make reality and reality is 
Whatever I want it to be
I wanna be 
I wanna be being beyond
What everybody else see’s
So the glasses that I’m wearing are a prettier tinted Pink ‘cuz

I’m competitive.

With myself
Competitive to better the self
Because tomorrow’s reflection 
Can’t be today’s self doubt.



If I can’t write it in one go
I let it go



Pen, write, type
Mind writes what truth cannot deny
Artistic romanticism
The words that be in mind
Being, it’s a state of mind

Truth writes what mind feels inside
Paintings, internalized
Culture, art, and philosophical rhyme 
Words articulate the conversation 
Of what letters form between 
Space, it’s just time 

A place, I like to be
Being, in your hieroglyphic variety

Vocabulary, defined
Lingo in another reality  
Nostalgia for the chatter 
Of how speech used to be
Typing in a language I never thought could be

Private communication
Understanding, always longed to be
Riddles, inquiry 

The cowboys periphery
Mad, for a time

Mad for a sweet line
Mad for a textual sign
Mad for a scriven pine

Mad for a realign
Mad for a define
Mad for a subconscious entwine

Mad for a silver vine
Mad for liquid iodine
Mad, I’m

Mad for the mental underwear
Mad, I’m
Mad for the jabber that fills the air



Silver pearls coil in sequence, concentric
Every breath as she steps, hover in each step
Polished onyx hangs from her neck

Musing thoughts as sterling stones pave
Conversation, treasures
Every word, say
Echo, let the soul come out and play

Burn like the fire, don’t melt away
Silver pearls string sentiment, a girls being byway
Way of reflection, black pendant hangs
Divided, highways

Flame and smoke
Incandescence, oxidate
Around her neck coals string
A poetic display
Silver heart throb, charms caché

Beads ornate, tones juxtapose
Silver pearls course, continuous array
Thoughts chain in row, run, passé
The polished onyxs’ sublime, everyday

When Nothing Is Planned


Jammed, copies too many
Printer screams, images of images
Of mannequin model clothing
Prints, flying
Paper thin
Waif, on the wing
Running to finally
Steel chamber, chain
Two hours, train
Not quite an Amsterdam
No, not like Berlin
But an Antwerp
First glance familiar
But of its own number
Thirty five door
Sterling sparkling silver
Friends key greets, the
White button rings
A diamond shaped
Metal accordion elevator doors
To the third floor
Glass divided
White walls
Wood floor
Neon candles
And polka dot spots
Surround our one night
Space that articulates
Particular conversation of
What is, of what’s
New space, a race!
I stamp white paint
On hand fold and rip
Fold n’ rip photograph
Tags, ten to pin
To vestments that shed
The energy of tired hands 

Doorway stands
Spiral staircase
In the middle of Belgian city land
Hanging racks
Price tags
Scattered prints lay
Of what is an accidental
Composition of black and white
Shadows move as the party commands
From store window to foggy horizon line
Stand! Music and twins
Smoke, passing outside I feel cold
Cobble stones and city trams
A place where the happenings happen inside I feel
Like I’ve been dropped in
A new land before time so tiny, we pass
Antiques and furniture and
Circular windows and
Circular flow of a city I haven’t experienced before
Excitement, sunshine
Rays, goodbye
The effortless
Aesthetic wonder some intention or
Cultural practicality that eyes
Of desire for oddity
And more eclectic
Of wall, buildings and
Signage sync to make Antwerp’s drop off
Bucket hats and jackets moments in life
Feel like a taste of the past and the future
By momentary telegram, delivered
In the minds reflection
Of what it feels
In a new land
When nothing is planned.



Hear my voice
Can you hear my voice

Mother fucking sewing machine
I wanna scream
Scream, to the machine that stitches my dreams
That freaks at my seams
That fucks with the mainstreaming
New dreaming
Other outside outerwear
‘Cuz it’s the inside
That’s scared to let a day go by behind
What the ordinary confide by
To be beside the fabrication of manipulation
Inside a dripping beehive, I fucking decide
I will ride - ride my own sewn line, live alive
Within the third voice that coincides
With the static rhythm of the sweet divine
Of my own mother fucking mind

Hear my voice
Can you hear my voice
Mother fucking sewing machine

La Tour Eiffel 


Everything you see and experience is a reflection of something else - everything we see is a metaphor of what was previously seen or experienced. We are cushioned on all sides and ceilings and floors as the kaleidoscope of reflection and refraction beams back at us with the imaginative familiarity of what was previously seen. We create time to feel we move forward, to create the illusion of a calendar, to create the illusion of the progressive image of our realities but cannot escape the constant. The constant of reflection and refraction that does not make up time but only reflects space. When we feel the discourse around us resonate, we have neared to a more perfect reflection of what occupies the previously reflected space as images fit inside certain images, like a puzzle to the dna of light and energy.



Rolled cigarette, le smoking room
Ear to ear the bourgeoise regard
Never seen a cowgirl, something from afar
Ten-gallon outline nods to the scene
Disco diamonds, dance floor noise
Drag show the night before
Midnight in Paris
Hemingway, Moulin Rouge
Parallel 21st century
Le Tribunal
Behind the DJ booth
Crowd screams
As the lone star booms
Swinging hips
Paris, Texas
She moves the entire room
You’d better run, better run
This ain’t a costume

Society of the spectacle
Rumor is true
See and be scene, seen
From a birds eye view
Cowgirl commodity
She consumes
“The spectacle is not an image
But a social relation among people
Mediated by images”
Guy Debord argues

Outline of images
Underground crew
Artists mingle
Head in the blue
Existential tales
She’s looked at, looked into
As fast as she reads
She experiences the truth
Existence vibrates
Sounds from the speaker
Tells her story through
Crowd nods
That song was for you

Rue Saint-Sauveur


Window frames dissipate
Walls rotate
Skies and cotton
Clouds inside, stitching
Her dreams, reality 
Never as it seems
Never wake me 
Keep me
In this dream



Suede fringe sways
Summers tune
Walked into a bar
Knowing no one in the room
Dates confused
Social interlude
Neon pink light ’For Lovers Only’
The piano keys play
To the ramble of midnights yesterday
Silver conchos clink
Back room talking
Faces softened
Smoke and nicotine
Caught in the current
In the in between

Black pearl
From me to you
It’s for you
Hendrix turns
Pool table eight ball
Night continues
Back at the Belmont
Hotel room
Seven white lines
Six new faces
Balcony talk
Texas, high view
Side glance only lookin at you
Night call
Next room
Portrait, persona on paper
Can’t be removed
Four party crowd
Trickles to two
Immersed, contact high
Social trip, deja vu
Body intercommunicating
Lips enunciating
Mind deliberating
Mirage in view
Existence is that you?

It’s just the dream I had in mind
The social trip
We’re all on the same ride
Moments own
No ones checking the time
No one own’s this time
Livin’s easy when you close your eyes
Today’s half time
Extension of the other night
Morning never came
Suns never rise
We continue on the other side
Flat plain
Highway wide
Fuel City, lone star
Lighting up the sky
White stripe, freedom ride
In the saddle of the subdivide
What a pretty drive
This time
6am lookin at the skyline as my
Suede fringe sways
It’s summers heirloom
Walked into a bar
Knowing no one in the room



Bodiless beings hang from the rack
Sweat per stitch
There is nothing comfortable about sewing
There is nothing comfortable
Not comfortable
Needles, pins
Sweatshop sins
Back breaking ends
The iron’s scream
Steam, burns to my finger tips
Labor, dressing for desire
When desire dies, what do we have left?
We only dress to project
Competing with the feathers of a peacock
Slave, the foremost trend
On point
At best
What is best?
The sweat down my back
All to get dressed

I don’t want to get dressed

Snake Bite


Spring’s come ‘round
Second skin, sheds
She leaves her other self
In the field across the bed
Of little white daisies

I can say anything I feel
I can say what I want
Only time for the real
I can say anything I want too
Anyways, why pretend?

Like a snake in the desert
From the dunes of New Mexico
To the dusty grounds at Palais Royale
She moves through society, interactions
An accent to her sound
She’s here to make noise
She’s here to cry out loud

No sense in the non reality
In the sarcasm
Verbal safety, done
Being a polite lady
Time in the falsity
Not getting my Southern hospitality
Illness, you’re fucked in the head
My own life, my own bed

Watch me walk away
Leave that layer behind
Watch me create, thrive
Manifest my life, day
Today, plenty to say
In the other parts of my head,
Other channels
Artistic reputation
Like the snakes on the feeding ground
Surround, Texas heat
The Parisian runaround
Spring’s bloom, snake bite
New found
In the real time
Right now



Imaginary dreams rain from the clouds
Clear drops stain the white cotton curtains
Hanging round the windows wooden frame
I close my eyes and think about time moving the same

I close my eyes and try to pause
What is real if you don’t see it?
What is real if you feel it?
Lookin for truth in the fabricated day
Truth in each stitch
A philharmonic pitch

Imaginary dreams whisper from the fog
Fumes of grey waft from the flying flame
Opt out, kiss goodbye
Let it go, tomorrow will arrive
I close my eyes and try to picture the fragments
Of what I’ve seen with my imaginary eyes

White skies, a purple butterfly
Earth, dirt
Ground and grime

Imaginary dreams, open eyes, I try to vocalize
The intuitive mystery I’d like to define, the awareness - a verbal cue that could hit at what I’m unable to outline

Reality just in the way of my dreams
Tryin to listen, tryin to hear
Everybody’s got somthin to say
Talkin over each other
Just want to hear themselves
At the end of the day
Cotton dust
And silver blades
It’s me and my good time
I’ll make it a good time, alright
I’ll make it a good time

Imaginary dreams deposit part-time
Never been one for realism
It’s a repetitive headliner in my lucid mind
Lookin for the answers, my mom say’s it’s my age
Smoking bluebonnets
Texas days

I’ll make it a good time
I’ll make it a good time

Sewin machine, threading for the daze
It’s a heat wave, delusional
The sun’s casting shadows on this imaginary phase,
The twenty-four year old
Tryin to figure out her life
Simulations makin shadows on her face
Only twenty-four
A twenty-four year old
Twenty-four hours, dreamin
Seven days



Velvet petals 
Blossoms grown
Efflorescence, wild 
Flowers hold one’s own

Seeds scatter where 
The white clouds blown 
The wildflowers burgundy
Colored baritone

Grassy hillside, strong
Winds hone, the wildflowers
Sperse to the birds 
Lateral unknown

Pastel petals 
Bohemian rhinestones 
Variety uncultivated 
Impermanent home, free
The wildflowers flourish
Where they want to be grown



Cracks down the surface
Pills in the grain
Thread count loosing
Nothing, nothing, nothing's
Sittin in my bodies own
Passenger train

Going round round round
In a circle motion
Conditioning, notions
Feelings, precognition
Is it still a dream if you
Know where you're goin?

Past tense, it’s all been done before
Before, spinning in a circle
Making face
Faces to mask
Masks to make

Deja vu, I've been here before
Before, I think I know you
Dreamin, that I thought was real,
Reality and truth these days
It's a fine line
I feel, heavy metal
Steel, pacing evenly against
A wooly mirage
Mindless, my minds own

Black stitching, repetition
Two rows of cotton dashes
Like my own set of railways

It’s a shape that I’m dreamin
A shape to mask, to cover
Needle, thread,
Silhouettes floatin
In the upper cabin
In my seat, of my bodies own
Passenger train



A new roll
36 long shots to take
Quiet, focus,
Shutter -
You shoot,
I shake  

Grazing I prance,     
Grass and daisies,
It’s a 70’s heartache
Nostalgic scene
Smoke n’ gun powder
The living rooms music

Sunday’s black and white
Spots on my hide,
To the soft velvet rhythm
I stride

You daze
The drooling state
Like an 18th century painters
Male gaze
Horns on the female
Legs for days
Quiet, focus,
Shutter -
You shoot,
I shake   

Weakening, you push me down
26 long shots to take
Wind the film back
Refocus on my neck
Not just yet,
You say
Tilt your head,
Turn your body
Move that way

16 long shots to take
Big equipment
You think you’re
Such a creative man well,
Dumb doe in the moment
I am

Lens, protruding
Yes you say,  
Hold it like that.
You’re beautiful, you say.
Yes, look at me
Quiet, focus,
Shutter -
You shoot,
I shake.

Your photographs
Like headless deer
On the wall
A prize
A woman's breast
You have it all, man
You have it all

6 long shots to take
Is this who you are?
Shoot -
You shoot,
I shake

1 long shot left to take
Shoot -
You shoot,
I shake

36 bullets imprinted
The doe’s moment frozen in time
I am here, I am alive
An artist you call yourself,
Is this your idea of an archive?

You’re nothing but a fucking hunter
You’re a hunter entering
The dark room
Red light
Print my picture
I can’t expire
I can’t be, removed

Chemicals bleeding inside to preserve,
Preserve whats been stolen
Taken to, observe

36 pictures printed
The living rooms music
Take the picture down
I’m not doe, d-e-a-r, dear a darling duplicate
I’m not your sweetheart,
Your muse
You are the fake

Get out of my living room
Out of my mental space
Get out, and take your shotgun
Your equipment

This wasn’t my perspective
This wasn’t my gain
This was your reoccurring
This was your photo game

So long

02. 2019

She doesn’t know when you’re coming back
Light the flame,
Draw the match
Against the surface
Of her creative state

Couple days, dry spell
Light it up again
Like an addict, wants the
High, she wants you back
In the forefront of her mind

The smoke’s whisper, ideas
To be flowin again

Softly, temperance
Moving at a glorious pace
Where is the turnover
Point in time?

The turn around,
Opposite of ordinary
Mind taking,

Heat of the moment
Like a boyfriend
Here and gone
Creativity, you have her longing
For what she knows
Only comes
Once in awhile,
So long

Tan paper
And a bowl of dried
She mixes her herbs to talk
To you
She’ll have a word with you

You breeze in,
Make way, you say
Sign off from the everyday,

Sign off from the subjective
Sign off from the self pride
Sign off from the essence,
The status,
The coherence, individuality,
The psyche,
Sign off from the mind and bodies
Great divide

Like the bridge in the song,
A change in the melody
Light switch, turn on

She wants it on, incessantly
Relentlessly, ascend,
The ever flowing, unconsciousness
The conversation with no end

If she could choose to have you always,
Not a dry day in her mind,
She would keep herself
In the dream state
Not a worry, circulatory - circumscribe
She would subscribe

But unlike a physical presence,
Who’s there to take - to posses - to own,
She knows She will always be there
In her mind, She is never alone.



A hitchhike down
The highway
Way, make way
For the uninhibited
That comes from a

Blank check
Wilderness calling

Letting what can’t be
Disciplined, flow

Tumble weed,

Quiet hiss of the wind

Where the wind takes
It’s not

Permission for
One’s own sweet time

Stopping traffic
Highway dancer
The deserts
A paradigm




Ghost town
White dust and desert surround
A cross
And a peach painted stripe along
Adobe walls
A dog and stained glass reflects
Sins of a cowboy
And a camera to analog
The shutter of thoughts
Dishonor and disheartened
Lady, with a needle for speaking
It’s a cowboys jazz
In the badlands

But what’s bad isn’t land but
Footprints of people who trample
Ramble and deceit
See, take, and re-repeat the
Melody of the lady
Cries for the lullabies of
Higher innuendoes
For the truth of strangers
Only dangers
The purity of what she creates
Bless and take
In the badlands
She weeps while her partner prays

Shadows cross down his unbleached
Denim back and a bandana noosed
Around his neck
Stitches of hours of love
And craft
Kaleidoscope windows reflect
Present and past
It’s a cowboys jazz as he takes
Off his hat folds his hands
And looks down at the veined
Memory of want cannot be erased
Only pray (Of what will be forever past)
And what forever can’t erase
(Only pray)

Outside, ego casts
Shadows of the alter
Hands in face, disgrace
He meets himself through the looking glass
Body crossed, walled
Again, God
Meets the cowboy
Inverted and upside down
Peachykeen and brown in
A robe of reflection of
A lasso’d pig

But what’s the cowboys want?

Squealing and squeezing
Piglet teasing
Lady weeping for the chase of
Primal dance of
Stupid distaste
And peacock feathers in
Her face
By Gods grace
Black Mary stitches up what she
Can’t participate
Sews on a button and slaps him in
The face.

Let the cowboy chase the animals
And only pray.



Maybe it’s deserted land
Nothing in sight
Not chasing a societal scene
Being happy, unseen
Being happy revolving in my own dream
Being happy
Happy alone, happy with my own hand to
Hold it’s all I know
I know I love a fantasy
Is it another soul that fills a place in a
Part of my eternity?
Is that what it’s supposed to be
Two figures, a house, conformity?
It’s hard to trust what you can’t see
It’s hard to trust what you don’t believe
Theoretically, commodity
Capturing life
Defining reality
Understanding existence of the banal
The exceptional
The medium, modernity
Being happy
Happy in my own identity
Happy writing, writing
For my own sanity
In the middle of my educational rights
Master’s in sight
Maybe I just wanna let it go
Maybe I just wanna go
To escape the wheel
To live and
Just let it all, go.



Salut stranger
I stand at the unlit light
Your presence, imaginary light
Golden hair, pastel smells
Of the vintage store
You hug me, like we have held
Each other before

Special and true
Seeking sounds from another place
Your words, woven pictures
Form in my headspace
I can almost smell the story too
The story about how your nose led you
Dirty and young
To the girl in the classroom

Salut Stranger
In the shadow of the Seine
I think we could wander past days end
To the point where the moon meets the horizon line
Where the ripples of the river find the sky
Where words and thoughts don’t have to try

So small we are, against the air of the night
So small we are, in the line of sight
So small we are, along the Paris cobblestones

Tired, stumbling walk
You say are steps are like the metronome
Our legs synchronize
As you lean on my side
Your arm wrapped
Our shoulders abide

Salut stranger
Wearing cotton baby blue
I like your opinions, I like your tune
I’ll never forget your story
Amusing and true
I laugh at your honesty, it’s something I seek too

Maybe I knew you in another life
Maybe we have already spoken
Maybe we have already met
Maybe we’ve already created in places we haven’t found yet

In this place in time
Paris find and found
Encounters, Texas comes around
I’m only more curious, more than before
Salut stranger,
Stranger no more

Let Down


You are a pretty boy
Who’s tryin to sell me somthin
But I only like to keep what will last me awhile
Soul by the ounce
Good deal, love pill poppin
Is there space in time for you and I?

Your deep teal eyes in the shadow of a doubt
Affection, your arm comes in westbound
Desire, it’s a breading ground
Love, will you let me down?

The pace to your walk and the
Voice that makes your sound
A way with your quarrel
The underlying outline of your immoral

Heart, inbound
A diagram, a blueprint waiting
To be to figured out
Beats, on the mend
Softly beat beat
Beating days for you and I
Love, will you let me down?

Contact high
In my head, we talk all the time
I had a dream but what is it
When you wake up and can’t remember
No rhyme to the reason
Waiting for the time, when love
Tips over and takes me for a ride

Red ballon floating, white cotton cloud
Fantasy, bleeding for a trip
Can’t breath, electrified
Suffocating, love
Leaves me unsatisfied
Love leaves me
I need more carbon dioxide
Love, always letting me down
I’m coming down
Love, you are a
Let down 

Black Pearl


I don’t think you know
I don’t think you really know
I don’t think you know how much I think about it
Think about what if
What if it all went back to black

But nothing’s in the dark anymore
All cards on deck
I see you for who you are

Coked up, subconscious speaking
You were playing with my feelings
The girlfriend word ringing
Didn’t chime back
To soon to open up
Glad I didn’t
You were cheating

I didn’t have enough time to say how I feel
I didn’t get the chance to open up
Be real
But what if I did, what if I let you know
Let you know that I wanted it to be real

To fragile to wait for me
To fragile to understand the potential to be
To fragile to be alone
No independence
So you go to Rome

Didn’t want you to go
You go, your safety net waiting
Back to black
Had to let you go

Waking up, dreams freshly planted in my mind
You were there, future tense
We were together, elsewhere
Long before we got up
Long before we woke up
Long before you fucked it all up

Back to black
I liked it better in the dark

People tell you who they are

You don’t have to ask
You just have to listen

People tell you their intentions
Without having to say
The way they act
The way they play

You wanna fuck today?

Just listen, just observe
It’s laid out loud
You wanna fuck, you wanna run away?

Sheets still stained
Thinking of you
Now what do I do?
You wanna try to explain?
Save it for another day

No respect for manipulation
Not up for negotiation
Selfish, all of this
Your own intention 

I liked you better in the dark
I liked it better when we were in the dark

Eyes closed
Lids go black
Dreaming, maybe
You’ll pay me a visit here
Maybe you’ll make it all clear
Can’t see
‘Cuz we were never meant for today
You made it that way



I don’t want to know the future
I just want to be here now

I just want to feel this all
This all here right now

Come a little closer, see what I see
Smoothly, tunes burn through this solid place
Solid glass, window frames
White borders, interior  
This solid rectangular space

Wooden beams hover my dreamscape
White curls circle around, ashes floating
Down, down, down
The echo of my mind
Higher than the sound

Feel this now
This all, here right now

I don’t want to know the future
I just want to be here now

Mesmerized, black and white
Inside, my eyes frame the other self I see
I see, I see myself rising
Down with the rhythm of the melody
That completes this mediocracy

Times not wasted, floating around
Minutes backwards, resonance
Societies reflections
In the words I write down
Tuned into my own 
I just want to be here now

Like a feather fluttering to the ground
Softly, floating presence
Pushing against the gravity
Being in the now, ascending 
Down, down, down...

Wild Horses


I chat with you on the other side
Like nothing’s changed, just less to define
I chat with you on the other side of what used to be just words
Where the digital facade resides

Type type in between the rhythm of my daily life
Suddenly all the type was in front of me, alive
Tangled and amazed
Physically sober but mentally dazed
We crossed an imaginary line
Weightless we spent on the side where only closed eye’s reside
Where dreamer’s go and mystery unfolds between the star’s of silver and white
Sky’s so dark the ink on your arms no longer have an outline
Woke past noon, so simply the sun’s rise we walked back to the other side
Nothing to declare
Nothing to define
We went back to walking on each of our own lines
Only you put me in a drawer, organized the rhythm of how we communicate
How we rhyme

A drawer from the direct typeface 
To the notification place
The place where images flash in front of our face
Where love mean’s numbers
And heart’s are just a shape
If forgotten
Stories stream and 20 seconds
I’m remembered again
Direct reply to what I’m doing
To the illusion I’ve illustrated for the world to find
The curated image of where I appear all the time

Inside my drawer
You seem to still like to poke around
Tryin to organize your lost and found
To see what you placed there is still making sound
You type, you echo
You’ll probably come ‘round

Living rolling, forward going
The unknowing is loud
I hate the sound
Not looking down, running blind
What’s on the other side
It’s the universe that’s undefined
I don’t care, I like to feel alive
I don’t sit back, wait or hide
I step out of the drawer and put your polaroid inside

Wild horses, a rif we have
Heard it all before
Own intentions in mind
Trotting, on my own curved line
Nothing to declare
Nothing to define



The timing’s not right
I guess this means I should focus on my life
I guess this means what I thought in my head isn’t
What it is
In this moment
In this time

Maybe it’s just distraction that I desire
An escape route from myself
A heart to dive into
A body to divine
Wanting is a waste of time
I just want a body to divine

Can we pass to the other side
Love is place I wanna go with you high
I want your body
I want your mind
This longing
This need
Running blind
Running for a love I’ll probably never find
At least not the kind that’s
Wrapped up in my mind

Do you have time
Can we let go
Can we go
Let’s go
We don’t need to define
I just wanna feel you
I just wanna know you’re mine, stranger
Let’s take it to the finish line
You’re so divine, divine
divine, I wanna wanna wanna makeout 
I wanna make dinner 
I wanna build a house 
What time are you coming today?
I wanna play
I wanna run around in lingerie
Baby, I want a body to love
I want you now
I wanna getaway
With you, let’s get lost in each other
Tangled up in la la land
All fucking day

I wish I could be so wrapped up in myself to not
think about - so wrapped up to shut it all out 
Tunnel vision down the straight lane,
I just wanna love 
I just wanna fantasize
Wanting is a waste of time
I’m so ready to love
I’m so ready to make you mine
I’m so ready to roll around your body and
Synthesize one outline
You’re so divine
Divine, divine 

Painted Lines


Talking small talk
Talk to make you like her
Admire her
Fit in the confide lines of
What it means to be
A she
A women in society
I don’t think you get her
I don’t think you understand her
Look at her
Can you see her
So… you feel her?
Two people standing in front of
Each other like a mirror

She’s not a reflection of you
Open your eyes, look
One and one
Next to each other makes
She has her own plans - her own
Plans, partner
A partner, is that what it’s
Supposed to be like?
Coupled up
Milk makes the bones
Grow stronger
It’s conditioning - societal confines
Decide what?
How to live my life?

What if I’m the partner to my own journey?
The off routine, off-ordinance
Periphery, perimeter
Extremity, not here to confine
Down the white painted highway lines

Lines, stay on that side of the line
No, I choose this side
I make and create to feel sane
I sell to make change
To function
Point the compass, white line
Down the white painted highway lines

Succumb to the sum
Of societies rules
To be present, to feel
Here, to feel

But maybe I don’t want to be - to have
To be, to have to be
Being in my own self,
Just wanna be
In my own self
Myself, her - self
What self would I be if I was a virgin to
The fundamental melody
Of the undeveloped society?

I don’t want to slave to this system
This system of needing
An education,
A job,
A partner
The nine to five
An object to society,
Make it hot, steamy
Sex sells
Advertise my propriety
‘Cuz we’re to busy in the blind
To question,
To take the time and look around
And find
What is standing
Here in the flesh
Here and alive

Now indebted to this system
At eighteen, the bank approved
A few dollars
Fund my education
The man is smart
Makin her think
She can’t make it
Without a degree, Fuck
The system
Running away from it all
Trading Hello for Bonjour
It’s just another societal system
A difference of language and perspective
But at least I’m runnin
Point the compass, white line
Down the white painted highway lines

Twenty three and in the midst of it all
In the flow myself, I can’t completely exile
So I smoke a joint to leave for awhile

To much to think about
Like Russian dolls, stacking
One fits inside the other and
The other and the other
Where are the others?
Another? On the other side
Can’t see you, so we stride
Stride on by, friends
Are just stimulants to pass the time
All I know is all I have is my mind
How am I gonna spend my time?
Just being
Just being
Thinking what the fuck is the meaning?

Nothin new, all the greats question it
Ask themselves
Write about, reflect on it
Only capable to define what I’ve
Learned to vocalize
Words made up
To help make up
The white line
Divide, divide - categorize
To analyze
Down the white painted highway lines

That’s the new wave
Don’t ya know, working
Off the system
Off the routine and rhythm
But until you’re on an island
A prairie
A piece of land, a four walled space
You’re still in the system
Makin escape
For a little while
Come back,
Not everybody can work within the divide
The lines society has put up,
Put up for us to move by
Be beside
Be sick
Be drugged to take drugs
Actually we are being
Taken from

That higher power insinuating
What I am supposed to
Form into
How I am supposed to
Not succumbing to paying for a vibe
So I sit through the commercials
On my Spotify
Driving down the road
Of undefined, just being
Down the white painted highway lines

Some Body


Waiting, waiting 
Done waiting for
Take myself
On my own
Called myself
But I got over
That shit
Young and
Smarter than
Size you
It’s not a
Word for
You’re naive
To think
I can’t figure
It all out
Figuring out
This system
This system
Of we need a
Body, I like
Having a body,
I like sharing
My body
I like your
But your not
You’re a shell
Fucked up,
Is that what ten
Years will do
To me?
Problem is,
I can’t enjoy
Some - body
I can’t enjoy
This system
Of meeting
I’m not waiting
For anybody
Any - body
It’s just a
I don’t want
The company
Of a body
The company
Of a physical
To fill the space
And time
I’m okay
On my own
I’d prefer my own conversation
And a joint
In my hand
Than the company
Of a body
Here to take
From me
All the generosity
And sweetness
Twenty - three
Has to offer.
Sorry you’re
A numb
Sorry your
Just some - body



Living in the sarcasm
Of social banter and
The happy hour

The “ignorance is bliss”
Golden Hour

The tipsy, 3 tequila shots
Fall over
Laughing Hour

The “let’s go back to your place”
Night Hour

Why can’t I enjoy the icing of
The cupcake
The surface fluff

Why do I crave
Carvings in stone?
The everlasting
That the masses

Because it’s to much
Pressure to be sure,
To be true to
Hold true?
Where is the
True blue?

Living in a spiral of
Meaningless interaction
The so called
The whatever’s

I don’t want
The now,
The momentary
I want the everlasting
The knowing
The promise that won’t
Break tomorrow

I don’t want the bestie
The fuckboy
The standby

In the products
In the people
Why can’t I enjoy
Social Facade
Word games,
Mind games
Power tripping

The bliss of
The moment.
Why can’t I
Be happy
With this
Fake second
Of chatter
This fake
Of “nothing really matters”.

If we only have today
Why do I crave
The reassurance of

I’m over the
Shit show
The social flow
The capped lid
I want it
To blow,
Tip the scale
Perspective shift
A heightened
Meaningful attraction.
I want the
The realness
The abyss

11 . 2019 - Fashioning

Can we question the behavior of a woman’s act of creation for herself as unconscious symbolism of survival for distinction? I quote John Berger, “Men act and women appear.” This ideology of the female as passive and the man as active has been represented visually through history since oil paintings existed. The female form as a spectacle of sight to be adorned and looked upon. The symbolism of the female as a passive object of sight attaches the woman to fashion as fashion emblems the industry of adornment and visual culture. The Theory of the Leisure Class by Veblen relates to Berger’s Ways of Seeing in that Veblen’s theory of conspicuous consumption is tied to the phenomenon of distinction and imitation. Women as trophies in 19th century as evidence of social class, wealth, and leisure. Fashion has an intrinsic relation with consumption and non-functionality. Distinction of wealth and leisure class was symbolic in the woman and what she wore - she could not work, but only dress herself as an item to entertain. Distinction in contemporary society is not only built on the display of wealth but through a discourse of cultural mediums. Conspicuous waste as evidence of wealth, conspicuous leisure as evidence of non engagement, and time as evidence of novelty. These ideologies manifest in the trickle down of contemporary culture today. Although women are not chained to the house, dressed in only the latest fashion, people (women in particular) are fed the ideology for consumption through the innate desire to identify, compete, and distinct themselves as images of passive objectification has been ingrained in our cultural discourse since 19th century.Fashion is female, and seems to continue to be. The sooner we disassociate fashion with the female entity, the sooner we will get to modernism.

Fashion body, embodies fashion
I don’t even like the word fashion
Fashioning the body as means of existence
Fashion, image
Image, reality
Reality, self
Representation of self fashioning

09. 2019 - Clothes

Clothing is the frame work, the pictorial representation of our realities. The realities we are deciphering are our emotions in reflection to human conflicts as means of existence - it comes down to the daily battle of survival (needs for protection mentally and physically as Flugel describes in the representation of clothes) of everyday life. Our need to protect (emotional or physical) cannot be tangible unless seen. Seen by our own eyes and the eyes of others as representational value of life. Value in actuality is another justification for existence - without value than what is the point? Guy Debord deciphers the societal spectacle of everyday life as a commodity, stating “capital became an image.” We as people capitalize our existence by image making (dressing). Our self worth is represented in our physical adornment and our mental adornment. I love myself enough to protect myself against the elements or, I value my emotions by representing them in clothing as protection. Flugel elaborates on dressing oneself as a response to the unfriendly world. We are in desperate need of emotional protection from the barbaric evolutionary battle of the natural world hidden in the conditioning of pampered realities we have made for ourselves in the systematic world. Flugel states, “Perhaps it can best be said to be a protection against the general unfriendliness of the world as a whole; or expressed more psychologically, a reassurance against the lack of love.” Is the labor of dressing oneself a commodity to ourselves? Value in ourselves as rationalization of our emotions as truthful representation of our existence? Karl Marx perceives value as the labour of commodity fetishism. Marx states that commodity “satisfies human needs, or that it first takes on these properties as the product of human labour. It is clear that by his activity man changes the forms of the materials in nature in such a way as to make them useful to him.” Marx further goes on in stating that man is an 'immature individual’ with two abstracts. One “…he has not yet torn himself loose from the umbilical cord of his natural species-connection with other men” and two “or on the direct relations of dominance and servitude.” Humans are weak in their mental and physical structures. Unconsciously, humans are battling natures elements in servitude to weak structures by the constant need to fill the emotional void on existence and representation of oneself. This representation being found in the behavior of dressing. Do we lack independence between our physical structure and our mental structure? Can one function without the other? Dominance and servitude to ourselves - the commodity fetishism of dressing oneself to satisfy existence. The value of existence, in Marx case, labour. The value of the self, in Flugel’s case, dressing.

“As I am, as I am”

09. 2019 - What is an Image? 

Guy Debord refers to the societal spectacle of everyday life as a commodity, stating “capital became an image”. I find that commodity lies within the people whether observer or maker or product. Image is commodity used in the form of advertising. Commodity can be defined as monetary value, but also can be referred to as spiritual value. Commodity can be subject to goods  as well as people, art, and places, being metaphorical and theoretical. Marx states, “For a society of commodity producers, whose general social relation of production consists in the fact that they treat the products as commodities, hence as values, and in this material form bring their individual, private labours into relation with each other as homogeneous human labour, Christianity with its religious cult of man in the abstract, more particularly in its bourgeois development, i.e. in Protestantism, Deism, etc…. Men’s existence as producers of commodities, plays a subordinate role, which however increases in importance as these communities approach nearer and nearer to the sage of their dissolution.” I theorize that religion (God or entity) commodifies man as value for a set of rules/constructs/dressing to live by for an increased value to life. Man cannot commodify himself unless he can see commodity for face value. Marx then further states man as an ‘immature individual’ with two abstracts.One, “...he has not yet torn himself loose from the umbilical cord of his natural species-connection with other men…”. Two,“... or on the direct relations of dominance and servitude”. When answering the question, what is an image, I quote Marx’s further statement, “The religious reflections of the real world can, in any case, vanish only when the practical relations of everyday life between man and man, and man and nature, generally present themselves to him in a transparent and rational form.” Image is a theoretical commodity for capturing life, defining reality in abstract form, used as a tool for understanding existence of the banal, the exceptional, and the medium.

06. 2019 - Truth in Space 

Always seeking truth, but where can it be found? A question I can’t seem to answer, but I find myself sitting in the driver’s seat, behind the wheel of questionable routes, endlessly driving to the far out, elsewhere, mental places.

I was sitting one evening with my friend discussing truth and atmosphere. How does the environment or setting re-define truth as we know it? He and I are sitting in my kitchen, face to face, in the present, accepting the space and tone of what we were speaking as truth in that moment. But what if we were sitting on my bed, face to face, how does the bed as an object re-define the setting for behavior. The bed alludes to rest, sleep, intimacy. Sitting on a bed would re-define our atmosphere for conversation. The bed would pressure us to speak and behave in a way that is more in context to the beds definition of truth. Would our behavior then be true if we adapted our behavior to be inline with more physical closeness, conversation, and allure to intimacy or sleepiness? Would the bed, as an object, pressure our behavior and change our context of trueness? Does the fact that we are opposite genders play a role in our behavior of interaction?

Let’s say in the present truth, romantic interest was not in our thoughts, but the bed objectively puts our bodies in relative position to closeness and intimacy. If we acted off that, is it true? Space is changing our behavior, in turn, changing our mental truth per situation. If atmosphere is manipulating our truth, is anything true outside of four white walls? Is truth relative to mind or space? Can truth be found in the functionality of both?

“What is real if you don’t see it? What is real if you feel it?”

05.2018 - Facade

It is always a question of how to present yourself, your image, and your work. People do not know who you are behind the veil of digital pixels masterfully curated to attract, and seemingly portray an identified image to the masses.

It feels much like a curtain...

It is so difficult to be seen as ones true self, as I am always in desperate search to connect with the somebody's and anybody's who desire to see beyond the curtain, who desire to touch a mental space that surface illusion blinds us from, who desire to feel a connection greater than the adrenaline impulse of a beautiful two dimensional image. The somebody's who desire to feel a high from conversation that stimulates more than the instant gratification of a like or a heart. The anybody's who desire to open up to a mental space that allows for trueness and awakening to seep through their veins and allow real heartbeats to pulsate between beings. The desire to be swallowed into a state of flow, where the surface is no longer the interview, but the depth between the lips of conversation bring each other into a state of being, that judgement and time no longer dictate the impression, but rather trueness- because when one is true, one can connect.