cloudy sunday just before seven is quiet.
During the festival, I’m consumed and don’t have time to properly be. I sleep too little, drink too much, nub excessive smokes and feel robbed of my direction. My aptitudes swept away by a world running beneath my feet.
Sitting in a quiet room with two weeks’ artifacts: newsprints, programs, disorder and a laser machine.
I knew this before going in.
Bookending a thought Noelle opened with: a festival should leave you broken. That’ll be my way of saying spiritual.
The profanity of my habits and routines unbuttons during TBA.
I never know how to get back, but somehow it happens.
Photos from the top
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Gia Goodrich 1,2,6
Wayne Bund 3,4,5,7
Originally published through PICA’s PRESS CORE