Tired of confronting thrown dirty cloths of yours. Tired of cleaning man-made deserts. I need you to have to face and own completely and entirely what you make.
Sky of sky, sky of light, sky of space, pressuring cold, sky without breath, sky of layers that we invade, our particles of what is that. I want to say emptiness, but it is anything but. They are full clouds until they collide, the contradictions entwined in black night coming down. Blackest and lilac space, part of it open but I am thankful for this lack of artificial light. Circling sensations of being small insignificant, breathing when I would like to hold my breath. Tired of this work. Not seeing anything but that above, anything worth seeing, anything worth sensing.