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Tangible objects and memories have been tasting the same to me lately; it's high time someone turned them around. Short snippets of minutes are spent looking at the sky or at the horizon, away from the rest of my body turned inwards with this group of friends.

Sometimes you get eyes that match and they stick together momentarily like magnets before the dotted lines of sight veer off into different directions like searchlights disappearing into the night. Sometimes you get words that struggle over each other, stretching conversation to its tightest to the point that the silence itself could be thicker than hot angsty tears. Sometimes you get agonizing tantalizing games; squeezing your head, wondering what a single movement meant, you stare at it for days and days until it inflates like a dark balloon and fills your gaze with helium and rubber and dark metaphorical omens and nothing else.

I get feelings that soar, high altitudes negative or positive since the depths of the darkest oceans are as bright as the sunlit skies of the most brilliant spring days. Quiet moments are spent looking at the edges of reflections and outlines of light and wishing that lenses and silver hallides could preserve some of this rich air.

I always keep a small camera loaded in my left jeans pocket. I am your hit-and-run, the fotosniper from afar, the photographer who killed JFK, the paparazzi that takes pictures of Santa Claus--I take your life and objectify compress package encapsulate it into a four-by-six and people halfway around the world murmur obligatory oohs at the exotic remoteness of your being. I take your soul and I squeeze it in a small marble and sell it to people on Sunday mornings along Newbury Street or in front of Hong-Dae, and I give people change in halves and two-dollar bills. I peddle bastardization and prostitution, and all you do is look at me and smile and sink away while I destroy unwitting lives day by day, eating my own away with acid tears, day by hour by minute by second.

Somedays I get tired of this drenched dramatical flair; other times it's all I have to keep the plane flying, keep the hamster wheels turning. It's too easy to look off away from conversation and into the deep blue and to cry inside; too hard to try to explain with shining eyes and estatic hands and to have remarks dissipate like dark carbon smoke from a snuffed candle.

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