To find out what was really there, look in the background. People will always smile for photographs but teeth are just a costume covering the cavities and undetected craters of sickness.
How to walk away from documentation when words never run out of film or flash and isn’t this just hypocrisy?
Go a day without telling it. Go a day without questioning every moment and just relax inside an image. A feeling. A sense.
I actually don’t need you to tell me you are sick. I can feel it each time you lean your hips into me. You don’t have to announce your sighs. I’ve turned you up like a radio; go ahead, static.
Is there a world which exists off this grid of electric wiring and photographic bragging?
I’ve turn this body into a machine. Aren’t all bodies machines. With coils and metal and marks and breaking and instructional manuals.
Place suffix firmly against…against….against anything in need of a derivative.
Send me a map. Go on. Cut it up like Burroughs did. Hand it back to me and calculate when my lost will arrive. Then wait for me to appear.