December 28th

My last day in Downtown this year.

The chromatic dimension of ideas.

Filmy and acidic. It springs from within my narration. Of a pretty good day. And fuck the dynamic range.

The story unfolds in the city of a day that reveals itself still in celebration. There are whores and martyrs, blessing priests and pop saints. There's my crooked gait advancing in the crowd. There is the perverse union of myself with the asphalt. There is blasphemous singing that cuts like a sword. Geometry drugs my framing. Repetition in Gestalt portions. Eager to ask for light and answer for shadows.

Art predominates over news. The mainstream takes its place in the last row. Without hope of returning, indeed swallowed up by so much translucent dreaming. The smell of marihuana overwhelms all reasoning. I am beyond. I'm there and I can't help but indulge and take pictures.

“Don't take pictures of whores!”

I'm climbing the last prohibition. The street is the only religion I am devoted to.

You'll meet me in the wild side.