dear luke,
you asked me to write something so here you go babe.

art is my right to be soft. to not know. to let the world slip. art is a portal to sometimes unavailable planes. art expresses our anger and lost hope and also our dreams and our truths and our visions for tomorrow.

what is this place? why are we here? where are we? dancing through the champagne, the fog of neon come morning.

we’re mostly surface creatures, stuffed with delusions, trained out of symbols and subtext. but there are crackable codes to secret passageways hiding in broad daylight.

art celebrates raw vibration
Ω_light & color; —
words rarely seduce the stars… but paint?

it’s all ridiculous. ecastasy is mania embraced. of course wildly romantic is an isolating way to go on a piggy planet that don’t know how to seduce. but romantic pens are needed now —

— so i say strain the anger from your story. drain the disappointment. make the outcast in mourning bits your art. leave the best qualities self-pardoned to intoxicate a room. you are a delightful stimulant best deployed as stirring propoganda that never loses sight of the sun. your queer zest and sparkling velocity will propel you.

tra la la.