thumbnail | click to enlarge
thumbnails | click to enlarge
we are beautiful painters, we
weave tapestries & where
the air condenses (past tenses, past sentences,
their white picket fences)
ours burns in solid flowers
where the air condenses, rains, the same everyday
you paint escapes & say yr fooling but…






je ne sais plus, je ne sais que je ne sais plus, je ne sais plus, je ne sais que je ne sais plus
