I am the wind in your hair. I am the rage in your fists. I am your love. I am love. You feel my touch, my kiss, my sting. Spread your legs. Open your heart. I am inside you. I am you.
He sits, head tilted to one side, eyes shut so tightly they could be sewn together, lips drawn in a painful embrace. You trace the source of his discomfort to the headphones welded to his ears. His legs pound a rhythm so relentless on the pavement you know he feels the snare in his soul. His fingers are wound so tight you fear they might crack, but you can tell by the way they twitch that his fingers are bending steel. He’s only gone for three and a half minutes, but when he opens his eyes, blinks, and tries to collect himself, you can’t help but wonder where he’s been.
“We’ve forgiven the sea for what it’s done. We’re going back to living our lives now.”
Reflection in a sculpture.
I saw this in a store window on it’s way out of business, and it seems eerily depictive of how the fashion industry can be: bubble wrap the old, in with the new. Rinse and repeat.
Distorted reflection of one of those massive LCD screens playing a commercial in Times Square.
Sousaphones in the rain. Times Square makes reflections real pretty.