there is a crumpled kind of peace we litter across dusty floors: half-done or quick-discarded things we couldn't shape or form to taste. and really, what is all of this? the photo and the blog make right our true, private imbalances: we none of us are hollywood, and that includes real hollywood. for image lies, but with great force: and happy accidents are those arranged the best to leave no trace of all of our great artifice. we throw away so rapidly each new impression, person, friend, then snatch at air, and call that life. so where, you ask, is crumpled peace? it acceptance of the flaws not just of ours, but most of theirs: for life is messy-glorious, half-colored pictures, drawn in haste -- the dreams we see but can't make real -- the wishes stronger than the sun we orbit but cannot approach.
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