weekends are for sleep and photoshoots

Hi my name. LOUD PARTY. Yoga in the middle of the kitchen living room. Circle of truth, Mikey, my name is. Fred. Coffee with the whole bottom filled with creamer; every shade three. Twos of threes: coffee cream. Living room kitchen. Breadstick. Coffee. Kids. Beer. 4 Four in the morning. Bread sticks that wanted to be cinimon buns, but ended up being the truth of youthfull corranance. Touch the keys, type. Ashes bruises sticks in feet summer winter rain kisses.



Closing eyes to not find sleep, find halliciousinations. Like rain against the pain, and the snakes on bicycles that ride off into the water. Photo shoots of burnt wedding dresses and tattoos of everyone i've ever met, seen, arted, inspired, photographed.