walking down the stairs in the blavatnik building of tate modern with la valse à mille temps reverberating through the canals of my ears and brain is a wonderful sensation
that sweet combination of solitude amongst visual and audible stimuli, familiarity with a site populated by strangers, and a cigarette smoked while warm sunlight bathed my face and wrapped me up in a towel after
the world can be okay even when things feel like they’ll never be okay