Art is escape. Even the most brilliant work spilling over with festive colors has an angry wasp at the center of its pulp. And each art with its scents and promises. Encapsulate before it crumbles. Hold a handful of dopamine, bend it, stretch it to the first edge of the sun. It won’t work, but the attempt is your best chance. Lies that last as long as the finest truths. And cinema it’s the most complex of bluffs, the one that makes me lick my mistakes. A pleasure that pulls me in like a toothed drain, massaging my twisted sense of the future and spitting out, without emotion, seconds, days, and years. Cigarette. Coffee. Cinema. I want to stop and go to that wooden house between limbo and those tall trees with bark that looks like hooves.
 
​
​