the photography is a sketch
the sketches they make of the boats out on the lake do not reflect the lake/ the lake as they know it is something they can jump in/ naked, of course/ even in the rain/ and they will go on falling and failing and flipping everyone they know the bird/ and the ruptured dreams they have, have always had, will be suicidal as they feel they have never been loved/ and there is this ashamed part of me, the middle of the gut where it burns, that knows the’re right, and it is all our fault/