i've always been a victim of my own isolation, i never get out and experience life, i merely observe it and take down notes; notes on post-its and behind receipts, notes that i lose, inevitably, along the way. i don't know how much i care about things, anymore.

i burrow through some of my older photographs of stark black and white, that i love because of their faint mysticism. take a photograph of deterioration, you see also the site for creation. take a photograph that has been nimbly orchestrated, beautifully created, but its value will only be fully realized when its beauty if ravaged and destroyed. It is so odd how i am so mercurial, at once regarding beauty as a thing to which i can do nothing but succumb to; another suddenly fascinated with breaking it down. I want to smash bone and china, to break your wrist and unthread your skin to its constiuent atoms and molecules.

When i read a passage in a book that is almost incandescent with lyricism and beauty, my heart stutters, it stays awhile than leaves me for a moment. i feel a need to catalogue it all, to collage it into a final journal of thought. yet my hand is loath to mark out the passages, because doing so would facilitate easy reference; but what i seek is not convenience. what i desire is to read it again, to discover it in the nest of other words, to relive it like a sweet first love.

that is beauty, tailored to my needs.

.

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