Sometimes, in New York, you don't have to wear clothes. For the love of GOD....PLEASE look at this book preview. Some of these pictures are phenomenal.
www.jordanmatter.com/uncovered.asp

Who am I? Excellent question. Open your text books. Ruled paper, please and a sharpened no.2 pencil. Get ready. Get set. Begin.

This is a study. I am your your golden summers, your bitter winters. I am your open book. I am your fork and your knife. I am your question, your reply. I am your last words. I am your warm hug. I am your tart, vicious kisses that last three days. I am your favorite hello and your hardest goodbye. I am your jack in the box.
All around the mulberry bush...

I took a walk one year ago. Somewhere along the way...I got lost. One year. Chasing pavements. Wandering circles. Watching the sky spin over me. Some days, I miss you. Some days, I even miss me. Today...I begin retracing footsteps. Find my way back to you. Back to me. Remember my name. One day. I'll be back on your doorstep. Smiling. And you'll be happy to see me.

WHOEVER you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands;
Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume,
crimes, dissipate away from you,

They stand forth out of affairs—out of commerce, shops, law, science, work, forms,
clothes, the house, medicine, print, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying.

Fragments and Walt Whitman.....

( Also: )

And we both took turns on the paper. One for you and one for me. Tell me one of your stories, and I'll teach your ABCs.  And after that,  let's play pretend. We'll have a tea party...me and my blueberry-eyed princess.

Learn to live looking over your shoulder. I don't think so. It's just a compulsion. Ignore it. But what if? What if? What if? What if?
Don't be afraid. It's going to be okay. I promise.
Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I see seven years bad luck. Just look away. Swallow that knot in your throat. Shake it off. 
I hate those days when I don't know me.
The time is running out.
Throw me out. Break me into pieces. Grind your heel into my face. Now stitch me up. Buff out the scratches. Paint on another face. Dress me up in fancy clothes, and put a new price on my head.
You've got a pretty perverse sense of direction, love.

Life after twenty five? Not a chance.

Too good to not  be posted.

You know you want to click...

I am tired of worrying. What if I'm not in the right place? What if I've really messed this one up? What if the sky falls in the morning? This, I think, is the basis of my identity crisis. I want to be brave enough to not care.

But instead, I am an escape artist.

Smoke. Underground rooms diluted with scent of smoke {dimming the light}  Below the surface. Subterranean. An acrid veil hovering on doorsteps. The place where I live is full of objects. The place where I live is filled with smoke and dust. It is subterranean. I am subterranean. I live at the bottom of your heart tending the clockwork and tugging your strings. You are just a doll. I can not repair. I can not repair your broken copper heart. I can only cover it with a handkerchief stitched with smoke and dust and well meant words. Happiness is free....but you were sick and I was blue.