Messy rooms. Umbilical cords. Flowers in a vase that symbolise a desire to make love against a tide that just won’t quit. Moths. Underwear. Books as portraits as kisses as fucking. Your favourite worst memory? Your first sexual experience? The first time you drank to block out the tedium of your ever-so-samey life? Identity. Pathology. Self-portraits and flesh that keeps stretching no matter how much you tell yourself you’re still just a kid. Dreams of an ex-lover and the scent of their body that lingers long after you wake. Frustration. Transformation. To seek. To covet. To taste those lips that once spoke to you of what it meant to be alive. How does it make you feel to touch yourself? Are you repulsed? Or does it give you the same kick it did back when you were a teenager and your body was an island that ached to be explored? Women. Feathers. Precious so precious as you wash yourself ready for the next act. All things pass, but the way we touch- the way we collide- it will never end. I see you rise. I see you stood there. I see you shine like Aldebaran, and how it makes me shiver to raise my face to such unearthly light.