Vulnerability, trust, assuming good intentions from others, and generally opening up to people still is difficult to this day. I feel vacant when I read about another massacre, another outgrowth of this item I forgot to embrace. I go out quietly, rarely impinging on my surroundings. When I participate, I feel thin, tin like, whinny on the walk. I guess I need oil. I get oiled. Wow, I need a lot of oil right now.
Stop resting underneath the whimsey of smiley faces, neon green, and gushing sugar BloBs. Retrograde sensual shocks, and natural is the color.
How shocking stark spaces are, and the people who create them. There has to be a storage space, or a basement. The last of the archives in a dusty basement. I lament, again.
Connective Cube 
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