with a sense of isolation, not my photo…


Finding Covers from the Winds

Sutured Up by the Fogs

There’s No Address to This Land I Live on

Only the Sleep-Deprived Pandas Knowing

That Every Single Leaflet, is a Poem, Written by an Anchoret

There’s that mystic feeling to this one, like everything is barely visible, but you know that it’s all there, that scent of being hidden, but people being aware of what is being hidden here…

and seclusion too…

like you’re the only one in the world right now…NOT my photographs…


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