A room full of demonstraters chanting and rallying the masses seeking a better tomorrow for their children and their grandchildren. There has never been anything greater than expressing yourself freely and moving […]
he plays the accordion like my grandpa used to. and he loves their music too. the fold, unfold, the keys they press. together they make an amazing mess, of sound and older memories. he plays just like my grandpa used to.
her palette of paints- dried, so the colors aren’t quite right. they set too fast. and the plastic palette lies there pretty, paint stroked and color favor, but her canvas shines, white and light, strangely uncovered. unprotected, lonely.