Baby Powder
The people coated with less paint fail to find traction with imagery. When my mind lures me to an island or group of them – the only temptation is to touch it, like the sand beneath my feet. I find success with my cell phone in hand, wallet in pocket, or a pastry with relentless frieze dropping on the floor below me. Less of the conversation, hello and what agreement is binding. The combination of sorts, turn your head. A solution, wipe with hand. A lot of one thing or something creates a looser sense of self.
You rarely find the correlation you want through conversation. What bleeds is violence and the whisper or screams of it all. The most wholesome understanding of that topic violates our conscience with a degree of regret. Though in Asia, nunchaku or the chalk that predicts the southern yam and pineapple – dancing to the beat of someone else’s steps we create shadow. The recital of words causes harm to those who listen – there is a safe place for you to live. With a man who talks in the night.
I advance and the bag invites me to lager, there is no question that my feet are as fresh as those who are willing to get caught. Hours and segments of our sunlight is radiated through it’s waves and signals. Protection, of your own personal style and the one’s who intervene – we are all at fault for our concentric interests. Suns and circles, coffees that drop, and voices that everyone can access – porcelain is honest.
