|
|
|
|
A mystical beginning. Charisma is divine. Take the bread to a certain place ruptured in the perishing scrimmage; slivers of wood decorate hallways. Help me (dissociating into foetal oblivion) please help me, please have pity. A serene and interesting ghost befriends us in the cold. Under the bridge skeletons paw at the Grail, singing, waiting inept for their missing flesh and blood. With this, mysticism and rapture, night and friendship, a girl murmuring adieu. The next time I photograph Golgotha Carol and Glenda will escort me, their fragrances tell me to investigate each torn moment as if it were a monument repulsed by the sun. To each phantom I give a white silk ribbon as my tendencies ignite. Birds are inextricable from The Art of Gentle Death. |
 |  |
|
|
|