We're at a weird and wild point in time here on Mother Earth. Floating around between seasons, we're hardly sure which way is up.
50 degree days.
10 degree nights.
But some places remain relatively unchanged. The concrete gives way to more cracks and crevices. Paint fades and gets replaced. Buildings decay. Less buses pass. But the cycle will continue.
Any divergence is up to us. We're in charge of repainting, filling in the cracks--making new ones if we're lucky. But for a moment, time stops. The sun shines, the temperature hangs in limbo; irrelevant. Paint neither drips nor fades. Everything is still.
I kept this^ picture in the line-up because, for some reason, I feel like it's a perfect example how odd graffiti is as a backdrop for a photo. To me it has a timeless feel to it. We're hangin' tight up against a few sprays of paint from the hand of a human on the decaying infrastructure laid by more human hands. One word comes to mind: meta. So meta. Doesn't this picture just scream meta to you?
Whoops. It happened again. **One of those moments when I stop counting sheep and the sheep start counting me...
**Serious reward for anyone who can come up with a better analogy for those ridiculously twisted meta-moments.
Peace, Love, & Little Donuts,