What a familiar space, the art of fucking up. Turns out I am the serpent's maw, gently gaped. No amount of poetry or coffee cups in the middle of the room could make up for this fact. No, there is no poetic semblance here, and I refuse to make art out of something so brutal.


"To unravel a torment, you must begin somewhere." - Louise Bourgeois


Boxes decorate the home as I juggle promoting my labours of love. I keep myself busy. I pick up smoking again. I quit. I ride horses with Lara somewhere in California. I cry, I scream. I use the same grace on myself that I've used on others so many times before. This is no testimonial, and I am not sentimental of the war. I feel it in my bones, though, as the sun peeks through on a Wednesday evening that maybe there is warmth in places we cannot see. Even shadows have their redemption.






9 / sofia / sea of love
songs i'm learning on ukulele