Every evening all the automobiles come back to their abundance after days of hard work,
but they always have unburned fuel in their ribcages.
Long uninterrupted fields of dry grasses get alive in nights…
they make cheap guitars out of their rough blades…
wind roars like a speeding train in them.
And in the corners of a sagging city the forgotten ones try their luck on autocratic economy.
I like these images…they are romantic,
they are the peaches of rugged legends,
they are like bottoms of concrete architectures of prisons…
The sound of a bonfire,
the tongues of a wet legged woman,
the waves of a vertical ocean,
you just name it…
I will give you that through the alcohols of a stringless night.

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Photograph: Kyle Peyton.