true lies
a photograph only lies with reality compressed into two dimensions and ripped free from any vibrant contextuality. and where is your focus...
down route 113
i still remember drives down route 113 laying on the back seat staring up through the side window with the sky broken...
a fan of summer
at the risk of sounding cliche life flowed differently back then… on hot summer days windows would be flung open wide inviting...
a self (in pending)
a self, in pending. bound by a web of whys from any given place all roads end in fate. found between two...
seeking absolution
to confess a deep frustration — beyond this monotonous interplay of words and chores scratched off a mental to-do list only to...
an august afternoon
in the distance a mower drones its low rumble. from my bedroom window all backyards seem vain. a murder of crows land...
it passes you by
beneath wrought iron lamps the red brick street glistens from a cool drizzle. with each passing step my warm and familiar bar...
goodbye, my indigo
indigo fades into pale yellow moment by moment, degree by slightest degree — and beneath an empty firmament devoid of dreams perhaps...