I'm beginning to understand my idea of wonderland.
less judgement more pigment
not quite so brutal not quite so crucial
just a happy middle of dribble and drizzle. the in-between of the guillotine and the byzantine.
not quite so brave not quite so grave
less pressure more endeavor
I'm ending this wasteland. I'm running with the minute hand.
the sound of my dad’s guitar playing his favorite chords the typing of my mom’s fingers going through family records the smell of the ceramics studio full of the kiln, dust and glaze the running home
it’s the little things they always say like how you listen more than you ever have before or how you stopped opening my car door like how you squeeze me tighter in our hugs or how you don’t answer me
I cant remember the last photo i took maybe it was a mountain maybe my niece maybe myself maybe you looking away no matter what it was it’s the last thing my lense has seen which means it means everyt