Circuits fuse. Minds blow.
Resonant frequencies produce hertz from one end to the other. The city boiling and broiling, moods sent to heaven rain down. Light peripatetic. Thought haphazard and racing. This constructed reality needs us as much as we need it. Our eyes odometers accruing miles. Jagged and scarred, the world bends and births. Rainwater collects in a ditch. Errant lovers are strangers. Tea steeps and fingers press keys to form the words this mind feels appropriate. This being alive such a lovely, abject, excruciating thing. Who listens loudest when we fail? Who is first to salute our capacity for willingness and success? The brittle drama of sleep is a nice break from a scornful consciousness.
Ahead is a dark woods, mountains looming like supine antagonists, their peaks in aged whites. Beast and sex lie deceptively dormant. A black winged fowl fills the sky and we are alone to brace against sharp winds whispering great terrors.
The photographs are nothing but moments in time — these and all others. Achieving witness. They are records, listed examples of a world being seen.