Unattended sparrows sow the fields with lavender. The fragrance betrays the eroticism of the fluffy clouds, looking down like a lover on a world that doesn’t know it’s asleep. When through the pearlescent gates the ocean begins to pour like a spilled drink, I made a raft from my studio desk, with an umbrella for a roof. Beneath the waves, Leviathan with centuries of teeth and an appetite for the twisted. The lavender will wash away. The warped odor of regrettable flesh will be all that is left. I sail to a rippled shore covered in sunbathing dreams.
Miniature Moon 