Different personas. Don’t think for one second, you will not be punished. For that. There will be no redemption. I was h-i-m for well over a decade. I can hear his voice. I can touch his grief, his tongue, and none of it involved  telling me what to do. It tells me what not to do. Asperger’s is a context where you know things, but if you say any of them out loud, heads will turn, staring at your eyes, to gaze together through our fingers, now the photograph pressed up against the cerulean digital blue pixel haze give me the daggers, and I will give you the prologue. Time will suspend like it always does. Speeds up horrible images all we are, all we know, comes from images, and how we exploit them from our ribs, to see, to endeavor transformational, I’m that guy because I say so, I am that guy who pretends to not be frozen impotent. Photography pushes me me down the rabbit hole. Normals rarely fathom anything because it involves a great big mirror, and we are all inaudible pseudonym after pseudonym, like that litmus test, can we crawl on our hands and knees to fit this please, the best of us know when Dodge has become dangerous. The medium is the haunting of your breed and bed. Unfixed. Why are you here. Time is strict in the rough torrent of historical evasion. I see no resemblance here. A muse can be pause or it can be the boot. These strong women, too, know many things. It’s not real until there’s a picture of it, and that is where the photograph is also the stage.