the rules are the rules. something is alive then ruined in the process of hands. that’s my logic.
it may not be sound but it’s a logic. i spend my time between sleep & a common crisis of
longing. my own nature a spectacle. spectator. indecisive in where to map a trauma (generational/general
angst/gentrified adjacent buildings). the quick glamour is bound to fall apart. the how is difficult when a
thing turns back on itself. the lack of translation for far-off terrors (a stranger is a stranger. a stranger
is useful until he is not). here’s what is known about control: a white hand. a pressure & my neck
in the same sentence. how i say it worked in my favor & keep grinding my teeth