I return to you on my cell phone in violet, scratchy hues, and I still feel untouched in an addictive way. I can have my lower back exposed to the screen, or hands curled into my chin, as long as it ends in twenty violent screams.

George Clooney. DJ mixes, witch house and YouTube are all great. I can read Chris, Eileen, Joan, Simone, and Kathy.

I’m feeling exposed as I ride my bike down Broadway and I’m okay with it. On the opposite end, my chest hair is curling because of the humidity. I’m comforted by the sweat in my pants.