Still I want to feel the thirst and the shimmer, desiring you, fired by you, blinded by glimmer. Where did you come from, this city that strikes out at them all in the electirc bright night? Wakes them with questioning song-rustled light, always the waltz and never the dirge.  
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( BLONDE. )

I suppose I should keep writing.

Keep documenting this oddity that is my exsistence.

Photographically as well as through personal narrative.

Soundtrack included.

I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.

SYLVIA PLATH

The Bell Jar