I’m preachin to you, all the poor fat kids who live in trailers down in Florida. With your low chainlink fences and damp white tank tops, you celebrate Christmas somehow; no change in weather or spirit. You get cheap presents. Maybe you sulk. Maybe you don’t even exist. Maybe the whole idea of you is wrong. But I don’t care. I imagine your reality and it’s too interesting to ignore.
Grandiloquent. For ever panting and for ever young.
Email:
archrisman@gmail.com
J’aime votre art. C’est votre existence et la fin du mien.
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