the posters scream LET’Z PARTY but the sidewalk says fuck that. she leans against the wall, black crop top stamped FAKE, chains swinging from her skirt, boots laced high like battle armor. studded choker tight around her throat, a promise of restraint she dares to defy.
the photographer crouches, camera shaking, hands too tight— trying to catch her in the totality of his desires— sharp, brilliant, untouchable. the lens bends the moment, shadows stretch over concrete, but Fake doesn’t see him not past the lens, not past the wanting.
what is fake if the moment is real? what is real if the moment is lost? she tilts her head, lips parted, an almost-smirk, that flirts with invitation, but lands in indifference. her eyes flickering past the lens, slipping through the frame, leaving the photographer stranded in her self-regard.
he has already said too much in the way he bows, head low, as if in prayer, in the way she swallows his admiration.
and when Fake walks away— because of course she will— hips swinging, metal clinking, her shadow stretching long in the heat, she won’t turn back, won’t see the camera lower, won’t notice the photographer staring at the empty space she leaves behind, like a fool who thought she ever could have been his.
Light spills from the mirrored dome, cascading through a river of glass— fish frozen mid-dance, corals aflame, a swirling, weightless world suspended between water and dream.
The incantation of the sea rises here, woven in tendrils of sapphire and jade, where a tangerine-striped fish, mouth agape, hovers beside a cobalt bubble, as if whispering the ocean’s oldest spell.
Beneath the coral’s outstretched fire, the octopus curls in quiet knowing, shifting between what is seen and unseen, while the sea turtle drifts without hurry, its shell a map of forgotten tides.
Above them, the manta ray glides, dark wings spread like a whispered prayer, turning as though it has forgotten the difference between falling and being held by the unseen.
And I stand beneath it all, bathed in the shimmer of turquoise and gold, listening for the hush of water, the slow, steady thrum of the deep, the spell of the sea unspooling into light.
Seascape (a one of the largest cruise ships in the Italian MSC fleet)
The truck rests, a carcass of intention, its frame dissolving into the ground as snow recedes in slow apology.
Once, it was motion — a vessel of thunder, the promise of distance held in the tension of gears.
Now, it inhabits stillness, a geometry of decay, the metal’s quiet erosion a dialogue with time.
In its silent decay, there is a pride— etched in every worn edge and dent. A testament to labor well done, with no regret shadowing a life of honest work.
Yet, in its ruin, a persistence: the shape of what was, refusing to become less.
The neon flickers, hums like it’s thinking about dying. Inside, rows of forgotten lives hang stiff and silent, waiting for owners who aren’t coming back.
A wedding dress, its veil untouched, waits as if time might change its mind. Beside it, a funeral suit, still stiff with a grief long spent. A stuffed rabbit, its fur worn thin, listens for the voice of its missing kid-
A priest’s robe with a flask tucked in the folds, a scarf still reeking of cheap perfume, a tuxedo waiting for a night that has passed, a silk dress with a bullet hole.
In their pockets a phone number, a pressed flower, a lottery ticket never checked, a note unread, an unopened pack of gum— small, unspoken losses filed neatly among the starch and steam.
Nobody asks questions at the cleaners - some stories don’t get endings, just receipts nobody claims- the winter coat in summer, the summer dress in winter.
Outside, the breeze shifts the weeds against the curb - the last sweater never claimed. No name, no tag, just the weight of something once needed, folded into the dark.
DADDY IS COLD-COME WARM HIM UP. Nothing I do, nothing I feel, feels like it did with you. Who would dare suppose such a thing? The twitching id of perpetual need, a litany of denials— life itself, a fragile compassion.
DADDY IS COLD-COME WARM HIM UP. Nothing I do, nothing I feel, feels like it did with you. Who would dare suppose such a thing? The twitching id, hungry, restless, denying itself, devouring itself. Nothing I do, nothing I feel, feels like it did with you.
A litany of denials— a shivering need— life itself, an unanswered call. A litany of denials. Who would dare suppose such a thing? Life itself— DADDY IS COLD-COME WARM HIM UP.
Of all the things in this store— packs of art supplies, joke collections, a ceramic dish shaped like an alligator— the kid chooses this. A plastic possum, mid-smile, stuffed in a peanut, wheels tucked beneath its shell, a promise printed on the box: Pull them back… Watch them go!
The kid grabs it off the shelf, laughing like it’s the best thing in the world— he holds it up to his dad, eyes full of wonder. “Watch it go!” he says, and with a flick of his hand, the tiny wheels stutter across the counter.
I imagine a designer somewhere, drafting the blueprint for this absurdity, testing prototypes in a quiet room, wondering if the world really needs it.
But the kid tugs at his dad’s sleeve, laughing as the possum shudders forward. And in this moment, yes, the world needs exactly this.
Boho Dreams of Space and Time 