Time peeled away beneath sandstone cliffs, exposing pulpy present where I was seed, waiting to be spit.
Sped through Nevada's vertebrae - the ribbed connection encapsulating pulse. We were synaptic, holding hand like Thelma and Louise (only at the bottom of everything, looking up rather than down).
People often discuss the importance of inter-connectivity: of the impulses of atoms colliding across demographics. The fractures deserve the same level of inspection. It is the disconnect between people that make us feel human - fallible, obscure, isolated. Connections have their merit, but it is only a person turns off a television that they know its design.
Taking pictures of abandoned houses in meth country is dangerous. Ten minutes in a stand of abandoned houses is all you get before gun-totting men in pickups kick up dust, clouding your lens. The aperture compensates like my fear, capture it. Make me convex, make me vexing, make me snap, shutter, release, advance.