Words without wings.

The flowers, like voices, shift with your mood. Each bursting bloom raises questions of when the color will run out. When the path is covered by branches, leaves, twigs, dust, vines, spiders and everything else that ever fell, the light my eyes leave will lead the way.

Find yourself, before anyone else has a chance to.
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Song of the second: Weekend by The Sea & Cake
Book of the moment: End of Food by Paul Roberts
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Location: Chicago, Illinois
Date: Summer 2008
Notes: Two sets of arms raised in the air, neither knowing which expiring second would catapult the knuckles forward like an army protecting its king. Sweat poured, as quick as a rivers current, from the ghost white fists that found an inescapable jaw. The punch threw rivets of spit and blood into the air as quickly as it was thrown. In hindsight, the fighter now wishes he would have moved a single second earlier in any other direction.

The worst part of the whole evening was the car ride home, seconds slipped into minutes slipped into hours slipped into eternity. Flashes that were both bright and blinding tried sneaking past the tinted glass of his car door. The sunken fighter could only sit there, chest moving outward then inward, eyes twitching then blinking, heart pumping and then beating. There was nothing that could make him feel anything but defeated; which, in actuality, he had just become. He wasn't broken, he was just bruised, and another day he thought would eventually come and with it, another chance.



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Location: Chicago, Illinois
Date: Summer 2008
Notes: It seems surprising when you can look into the bottomless sky and see beauty where no one else does. When you see it, like a child spelling words in his alphabet soup, there is that moment of clarity and exactness. Others try, but you can tell it simply does not hit them like it does you, straight in the face with no jokes.



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Location: Chicago, Illinois
Date: Summer 2008
Notes: Take the guitar strings of your life and bend them until they scream and howl.




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"What is one to think of those fools who tell one that the artist is always subordinate to nature? Art is in harmony parallel with nature."
~ Paul Cezenne
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