A night on the tiles.

When Jim Morrison died, at twenty-seven, there were twenty paternity inquests filed.

Sweat-liquid, soul-spirit

.....

Temperatures lingered around thirty, the heat stood still in the city, humidity put a film of moisture on skin, onto which pollution and dust settled easily.

Up down, like inside out, like all the other moments that had come and gone. He felt as if there was a string he needed to pull or a button that needed pressing, so the whole would continue.

My boyfriend lives in a great big glass bubble And sometimes he lets me in

TURQUOISE TERRITORY