this is a testament made from bits and pieces that are the results of constant wandering.
slow moving, anticipating the change, in the whites of these eyes. Like footsteps in the snow soon to be gone, a presence of impermanence and frailty exist in these moments, only for the moment.
I USED TO SPEND TIME WITH A HOMELESS MAN IN FLORIDA, WE WOULD EAT PIZZA AND TOSS THE CRUMBS TO THE PIGEONS AND HE WOULD TELL ME THAT THEY WERE THE EYES OF GOD, THAT THEY SAW EVERYTHING AND ASKED NOTHING OF ANYONE.
LATER THAT DAY A WOMAN COMMITTED SUICIDE IN FRONT OF ME, SHE JUMPED FROM THE PARKING GARAGE ABOVE AND AS SHE BROKE THROUGH THE AWNING BELOW THERE IT WAS,
THE SOUND FROM THEIR WINGS.
EVER SINCE THEN I THINK OF HIM WHEN I SEE THE BIRDS.
Cease to exist in anything that seems to be forever. Everything is temporary.
steps lined in back alleys are sitting like pews for this city, the flutter of pigeons brings the chorus in, as the nonsensical chatter of the passersby serves to these moments.
Dusk sits in the city, between scraps of paper flooding through the streets and the faint epilogue of a mornings silence.