If a poet and a photographer fall for each other,
do they make art or love?
A wordsmith in opposition with reality, submerging into the abstractions of thought and emotion, time and space; smashing into a chronometer, yet more, one who freezes time and space, thought and emotion, in one glimmer worth more than anything discernable. What do they make together?
And a dancer and a pianist?
That’s even more disparate than the prior!
Broken bodies contorting within every imaginable plane, expressing hidden universal truths kept deep within their fluid forms. Warped feet or warped hands. Once the creator, now reduced to used. An ivory river sparkled with ebony, with which splashes and ripples could rip the hearts of men, fallen to nothing.
In the grey folds of the mind, we find worse and worse combinations, abnormalities shaping from shattered thoughts and twisted fantasies: a girl and a girl, a boy and a boy, two humans bound by the things they love. One of the infinite being the other. Impossible