~~The confession of a deranged reality to a man of...
Sometimes the nightmares are reality...

Audio...

The timbre of a crying dog burning in the...
unpleasant like unknown...

We photograph a flower
paint it, versify it, turn it to a piece of art...

I was all the desolations one could ever have,
all the distance of loneliness...

- How far should I go before I arrive?
- All the way...

Maybe only music could slow this heart rate.
Maybe for me is already too late...

<<to the mother of Holly Jones >>
I saw your neck...

...

Waltzing
we poured...

This moment is all
I am able to have for...

I dream of you
in jazz...