​Humanitect
I hope that one day I'll be a beautiful story you'll choose to read at any time, a book you'll always hold, of delicate pages you'll gently trace and never fold
Humanitect
​Poetry | Art | Research | Design
Iris, 2017: Time falls and grows chameleon skins and lone woods fade drifting in winter cold. Still the one sky beholds a steadfast bloom of many layers fold.
Humanitect
I don't like labeling myself. Though it provides some relief of belonging and a way to make sense of unusual experiences, 'I am this..' and 'I am that..' doesn't make sense for me as a collective whole of fragments of everything.
The question hangs, 'What do I do?', asks the hundredth. I mind the blinded, the blinds and the blind. Dusted books they shade. Spines they peel I appeal, recovering my old books I shelved in three. In living what I left for thee, I paint my last leaf in the hope that it lives today and much longer, so that they may live further that no man hangs.