There’s no room to breath. It’s hot on the block.
Temperatures rise. Volumes rise. Pressures rise.
Mediums melt. Bodies melt. Relationships melt.
We don’t poke corpses because it’s WRONG; we don’t poke corpses because we’re afraid we might LIKE it.
I poke and prod with a light touch and a heavy line. The canvases the corpses I never poked, never touched, never said goodbye to, never thanked, never considered, and never warned. Corpses I never knew and never will. Pressure, as defined by space and force, runs the show. Pressure, as defined by a heavy hand, runs the show. Pressure, as defined by a heavy heart, runs the show.