What a son of a bitch fate that brought him and tied him to my spirit.
Every part of my fingers drew an ideal man and every single mold matched him.
Her face, her body, her voice. She seemed to be there. But no, he wasn't really. I don't know where he is sometimes, but I know he's not mine and he won't be.
Illusions no longer exist. Today realism and reason win in my body.
I should quit this shit, but I love him, and even if I try this to keep getting better or stay alive, I know that walking away from him, dead in life I will be.
Photography by Martin Canova
Smoke writer.
Faithful follower of Charles Bukowski.