Your hand unconsciously grasps it, manipulating its form; your pulse quickens.

With the slightest pressure you release the energy of another. It envelops you in its warm embrace, but it is not comforting. It is invigorating as it begins to lift you; but the shackles of discretion restrict your movement and your body screams in protest. The energy within you beats vigorously against its cage.

Perseverance prevails and your energy escapes. It dances across the plastic wonderland of instant gratification, oblivious to the emotional destruction left in its wake.

Coordinate heart and hand, this is 21st century masochism and borderline libertarianism.

For numbers now represent the ironic monotony of your inhibitions and the mortifying implications in your lack thereof.

A terse sentiment to the party below.

Perched atop the mind’s renaissance, the nightly facade could not penetrate him. Free to contemplate his life, resurrect distant memories, and discover his true purpose.

Standing on the edge between mediocrity and epiphany, he closed his eyes and whispered, “love me if you dare”.

A disturbance in his tranquil lake.

He opened one eye to see a blond girl smiling up at him. She thrust her arms up towards his position on the balcony.

“I found your pants”.

Coarse hairs nothing more than a soliloquy of jaded truths. Pressed and matted, they tell a strangely familiar tale.

The artist breathes color onto your canvas with grandeur acrobatics. Your crease-less, stain resistant visage stymies the performance.

Eviscerated paper is one’s retribution. But pleasure and pain populate corresponding planes and manifest themselves within your next display.