Destructions has always been intimate with spirituality.
The punk of fallen leaves and the murderers through G string…
I am sure of the lights as I am aware of the obscurity it suck through the way.
The sounds of fan blades, the sexuality of summers, the long hairs of a woman all through the streets…
I am putting candles on my balcony and whiskey on my table for that entire delirium.
And I will accept that stunning nothingness…
An awakened fire can never burn my stupid spirit…
There’s only one way to earn that,
demolitions of masked impressionism.
The futile vines over the cremations can never hold flowers in them…
The death…the art is erotic,
Don’t tell me about the artist.

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Photograph: Jennie Marie Schell.