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nebulae
scratches
if someone took an eraser to spacetime, the effacing would look like scratches, nearly depthless, splaying out in clusters of nothingness.
half
yet nothingness itself is a haunting mosaic of subtext – lying in wait for something to fill it.
nebula
in my plastic constellation, nebulae are the pithy realizations of pragmatic idiosyncrasy, embodiments of all that is fleeting and thus perfect.
spilt milk
for perfection is as subjective as spilt milk, subtle and tragic all at once.
shadows
clarity, meanwhile, lies patiently to be stumbled upon, inert.
sloop
all this i learned from a galaxy forged in tupperware.
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