Are we climbing up or down? It is hard to differentiate the ladder from clouds, the clouds from smoke, the smoke from aching eyes, and eyes from flashing lights, searching for any minuscule remnant of reason one may come upon during these times.
These are the times of flight.
When open-tongued words leap from mouth to mouth, polluting the silence with a constant hum, like the protest of a dirty engine suffocating itself with diesel fuel and lonely songs played with accompaniment from static and the situation of being In The Middle Of Nowhere.
The rustling of maps makes me want to draw my own and leave this town. If I make the map, I'll always know where I'm going. I'll draw it in expensive ink and razzle-dazzle rose crayola crayon so I can obnoxiously unfold it all over an anonymous cafe table and pretend I am from another country and I'm trying to find San Francisco but somehow ended up in Harlem.
I will pretend to be Russian, blond and tall
If you are tall enough, you don't need ladders unless you want to get your hands dirty. Personally, I know my fingers get along with dirt very well. They say that beauty is only as deep as your nails can dig... but there are only so many colours one can wear with bones.
Credits: Taylor Williams for photography
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