(c) Manuel Bóo
life is much more like a box of mermaids than it is of chocolates. abstinence should be treated with absinthe and not ‘concoction-depressing.’ lunacy. in my experience, as a photo-journalist, those who undertake to conceal, reveal. it matters little whether or not a myopia has defining characteristics. what is more critical, is whether or not there exists a feature to begin with.
why do aberrations have two tails and no heads? why is it that the burden of proof can lie with both the plaintiff and the defendant in those cases in which no law exists? my first understanding of walking was crawling, and even then i wet myself. the terrifying existence we all live in, is manufactured by ourselves, deprived by our surroundings and reinforced by a perverse proclivity to disgust. a machination is only surreptitious if all the parties to a bargain have equal bragging rights. even though a time machine speaks to you in linguistic hues, you never quite foresee the sort of colour that could have been, but for…end of sentence.
utopia, myopia, -opia. the creations that we absorb ourselves with are mere obsessions of an unforeseen, unpredictable and absurd reaction. forgive me if my precociousness is pretentious, but my mother once wrote on my birthday card that presumption can always offer – quote reasonable, unquote – solutions. for the third time, i’m not mentally deranged, just speaking my mind (howsoever defined).
and yet the wind blows through a particle board with the same velocity that it blows through an imperceptible void. it is there because you want it to be there, not because the freedom of expression act, post nine nine nine nine nine, felt it legally compelling to consider you. i am vomiting on my own ideas, my own legitimacy, my own future. presents are not for christmas, they’re for undeserving children.
santa claus is dead. hope and courage are not.
sign on the broken line. 