the murmur turns into whispering. the whispering streams into a heartbeat coming from a metal box down to his bare feet. an echo resounding like a voice from outer space tempting the preacher to
give you a tale from the woman on the moon.
what scent is so innocent? so unharmed? you are longing for letting dementia run. to see her fly. to witness surprises pulsing dimly as you are taking part in the fiction that surrounds us. in
the imperative of friction. and the ribbon that connects us.
all the shots taken by boyhood fine art ©2020