i bathe in the prose and the sharp-tongued innocence of miles and miles of dust and softened asphalt, laid out as if begging to have the glass and crooked pebbles crunched underfoot. looking down, always, when the sky is so much bigger on the road. significance is easier to extract from simpler, more basic ventures. there's a solemn and playful and insistent pulse within our blind faith that begs to be admired and nurtured, and a desperation in our eyes and words that begs not to be forgotten.

her with the dirty, sloping shoulders, him with the unclean angled face, her with the parted, breathy lips and him with the tightened, clenched jaw, her with the glow of unabated passionate emotion, him with the matte screen of caged logic.

a convergence of the twain.