Perilous Feats, Trifling Weak

Here's a flip-flop. Flip-flapping, furthering fermentation, dank drinks drunk and destroyed. I got little words today, but think, big pictures rather. Fuck the thousand words, because that shit is never obvious.  Dastardly, they assume the signals from one persons eyeballs to the brain will somehow completely explain their intentions. My connections to these photographs will always be greater because I was there for the moment of capture. My thousand words are my own, and you can't have them. You'll undoubtedly form your own. That's the intention. It's art, and emotions seek the mother tongue for description. I can ad quips, steering the ship in a north-easterly direction, but you're already in the life raft drifting. Here's a life saver. My excitement is derived from crisp, extraordinarily framed, abundantly lit (or highly absorbed), photographs. 

Never mind. My phone just rang and I have to go move into my new house. 

A la Photographic. 

 Please Hold - While I travel to space and back.

These Streets are Full of Flair

Fervour Fears Feist

Chills spiral through to fruition. Mongrel dogs howl hypnotic through the darkness. Our fear feels, as comfort in numbers sits illusive. Journey's whisper is close, unseen, but awareness that her proximity is immediate, I steady my shaking hand. 

"Take another step!"

Thoughts of distant are irrelevant. It's here and now only for this moment, forever. Digest the setting, the sky folds through ripples of time and space. We can travel the impossible distance, whoever deemed impossible, never accomplished. I reach up and pluck stars, curing heartache forever. 

My DeLorean hums. I'm attacking horizons, spinning hesitations fear me. Gum trees blurrrrr. 

Eighty-Eight miles per hour, and I'm standing still. 

I've forgotten where I came from, and severely doubt the road that lies before me. Plucked from my own experience, I can't trust my perceptions of the future. Can I trust the past? Doubtful, recollections are faint, and wear pigs heads as masks, dancing naked round burning bushes. Fuck the meaning. I take off my pig head and am conscious. 

I'm not sure I can tell the difference between my day and night dreams. I find my imagination is working much more these days. I chalk it up to more viscera activity. My guts have been churning, my surroundings impacting my consumptions. Goon Sacks. Direct connection resulting in revelation. It's working, so habits changing is extremely unlikely. And why would I want to change? Why would you want to change? Careful now. Self-examination is dangerous if you're not qualified. Like self-medicating is frowned upon if you're not a doctor. But don't worry, I went to film school, I'm a qualified self-examiner. Introspection gets convoluted swift. I recommend balancing it out by self-medicating. I'm also a doctor, in my dreams. 

I have some pictures to upload as well, but I keep forgetting the card reader when I venture to town. I'll describe one of my favorites to keep your curiosities at bay. The set-up. Salty, Troy, Matt, and myself drove into Canberra the other day to gather supplies. On the way back I took some pictures from the back seat while we drove. Lets say, blurred lines transpired. Stay tuned friends. 

Cluster Heads full of Stars

 [Goals to the end of the Universe]

 [Heads full of Stars]

Cluster heads full of Vast

Distracted last

To the ends of the universe

Spells oft cast

Distilled, tasted curse

 [Jindabyne, NSW, Australia]

[Night Trails]