I can’t help but think that the essence of my being is stuck in some landlocked memory on the roof of your house begging you to stay, because jumping holds winds of change and we are doing alright here. We rally to taste the cotton fuzz of our pink memories and we hear the thunder of what could have been. You will stop holding knives and the lake water will taste just like cinnamon. The trees hum yellow in the silent buzz of stars. The backseat of cars haul bodies full of frostbite and sharpie ink blood. Sure we could yell into the abyss but it’s just as good as throwing our secrets towards airplanes. Sometimes I think art is like a dream book. Visualize and find the thread of what’s screaming inside our heads. Either we weave it into something new or let it fray.