In a West-End town a dead-end world! East-End boys and West-End girls...
item: if you could pick it up, it would be jagged and sodden at the bottom and hung with lace and beer bottles off the edges. it could be pitching down break-neck stairs, sweaty and stimulanted, into the sidewalk cave under the aboveground subway- neon, trafficlight, carlight, cigarettelight, and the girl you make eye contact with through smudgy eyes. her makeup is heavier, barely. it could be crouching in the chancel above empty rows of pews and thinking. and thinking and thinking. it could make you feel sick. it’s gross or it’s elegant, but it’s always heavy. it would have drums and a bassline. the dark spots. I think I like it too much. maybe not. it doesn’t have to be exciting or miserable or sad at all. it can be quiet, or peaceful. it doesn’t need to be destructive. it’s what I’m getting at in everything I make and so much of what I love. if I was looking at the universe- and I think we all have different spots we look it at it from- I think I would be laying down, on the floor underneath it with my hands behind my neck.