Contortionists

Smooshing our circle selves into pointy sqaures

These paid posts are poetic behind the scenes and never before seen images as I make my photography project 3600 Hours into a book.

It begins with fragments. Unfinished poems dot my journal. The unborn pages live hopelessly in my laptop. My mind wrapped in endlessly unproductive loops.

I carried myself to the grass. I lay there. Strange, the earth held. I did not descend into the deep hole.

I cannot hear you. I cannot hear you.