It's not so glossy! Not so goddamned easy! There's less definition, and it feels like it's been pulled from the dreams of a ghost.
There's black, there's white, and that's all you get. The shaky intrusiveness of shadow and sunlight, reality hastily thrown upon the reel. Let us capture the now, the me, the you, the in between that we can no longer find.
It's become too easy. Too simple. Too clean. Too precise. Too nice. And nice will kill you.
I've seen life scored to Russian opera, the contours of thighs, the confusion of a woman's sweat. I've seen the elevation of the beauty of the everyday. I've seen true skin.
Dreams of a ghost. Why choose anything else.
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