For a moment I want to lie and say that I'm hungover, because that would be easier than the truth, and in a way I am, only it has nothing whatsoever to do with the alcohol.

this is the problem. you think in numbers. they make sense to you. you understand them. i think in shapes and textures, voices like honey and cotton. i understand them. eights are light red and airy and have pretty curves. that's all they say to me. i have to close my eyes and imagine a clock to figure out timezones.

you got it wrong, you know. everything is beautiful and it all hurts.

she comes to see the exhibition on the first and the last day. she wants to believe the pictures look different. on the verge of something, both times. she thinks of them being taken down and put into boxes, pregnant with people's eyes and thoughts on them, and whether they are more or less now.

veins like maps. where do you want to go?

must it be?

it must be.