You write stories of love into places and then it so often turns to pain. These places that have held me and the people I love become places of loss, black holes, places I never want to see again. Still I return. Or simply find myself there, and I have to rewrite it all once more, over the top of what exists already. But the photographs remain, loops in time, their sadnesses the price of love.
You write stories of love into places and then it so often turns to pain. These places that have held me and the people I love become places of loss, black holes, places I never want to see again. Still I return. Or simply find myself there, and I have to rewrite it all once more, over the top of what exists already. But the photographs remain, loops in time, their sadnesses the price of love.