Wednesday, December 3, 2014


is a sort of flawless mirage of Dadaism chaos
the kind of woman you immediately fall hopelessly in love with:
slender and hidden beneath a massive semi-transparent t-shirt
jeans ripped at the knees
combined with a deeply sincere aura of not-giving-a-fuck
her studio:
empty except for a desk
curiously placed neither near the window, the door, or the centre of the room
her designer handbag is flung by the entrance
oblivious to it's own value.
on her desk is a sewing machine
she tells me she could never work in a cubicle again
she's French, I think
and when I slam the window
the glass shatters onto the sidewalk
frightening the photographer's dog

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