Surf
Surf I loved, was rejected, and slowly vanished, but I loved again and eventually returned to the photographs and the sea. Today I am the surf.
Posts
It’s winter in Paris
It’s winter in Paris There’s a man singing to me on the street. He wears an elegant smile and leans against a wall like a question mark, one who lives in a house where no one sweeps away the sadness. It’s as if Lenard Cohen were in my room describing the weight of melancholy encrypted in the rain.
if it’s not leap - tanka
if it’s not leap a year is made up of three hundred sixty five stumbles… I’m testing the fall