“I’m never aware of the full picture, only vague figures, shapes, and colours remain. Countless moments pass by me, blurring and distorting themselves from realistic form.”

“I reckon if I picked flowers the star power sucked from the ground like a naughty talisman — maybe the PH of the soil is altered by the amount of celebritydom decomposing, would my hydrangeas blush prudent pink?”

“The answer is you and I, it always is. In that sea of dust, there was nothing. Quiet, not a wave, not a sound. In that flat endless world, a soft and gentle breeze started to blow.”

Tell me your pretty name so I might write you a portrait.

A transparent exchange afforded by three consenting partners: cash, broker, and consumer.

Your own personal Army of Lovers is yours to decide.

You move through the grain of closed eyes, calling through the undergrowth of my body.

We seem to think that our place on the spectrum between divinity and mayhem comes down to how loved we are.

One by one, friends gloved their hands and got to work; my ridged, lumpy canvas morphing and shifting, follicles taking on new forms every fortnight.