riy.flij

This is how she becomes a frustration. What she expresses most, beyond her unconscious intention, is a curious shuffling to the tingling of a tambourine. This experience, or existence, is the irreconcilable result of how she approaches a blinding drizzle. Simply, she is what she wants to be. I think her life is an expression of an embodiment that never fully expresses itself, except on a brown hill where rocks are still wet and bats utter shrill cries.