“I reckon if I picked flowers the star power sucked from the ground like a naughty talisman — maybe the PH of the soil is altered by the amount of celebritydom decomposing, would my hydrangeas blush prudent pink?”
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“The answer is you and I, it always is. In that sea of dust, there was nothing. Quiet, not a wave, not a sound. In that flat endless world, a soft and gentle breeze started to blow.”
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Tell me your pretty name so I might write you a portrait.
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A transparent exchange afforded by three consenting partners: cash, broker, and consumer.
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Your own personal Army of Lovers is yours to decide.
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You move through the grain of closed eyes, calling through the undergrowth of my body.
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We seem to think that our place on the spectrum between divinity and mayhem comes down to how loved we are.
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One by one, friends gloved their hands and got to work; my ridged, lumpy canvas morphing and shifting, follicles taking on new forms every fortnight.
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Say Goodbye.
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