Not sure why but


Gallery
Showroom on 9th St.

it’s that ‘write’ about it impulse but there is nothing to ‘it’ right now except time keeps passing, your feet always feel sticky in the summer in the city, the commute is  drag, and there are things that happen that you have no explanation for, like the body failing and demanding that it shut down–well, that seems stranger, more ominous, as ‘time’ goes on.

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