Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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He bled stars and city lights, coughed, and stared long into tomorrow as the hustle washed over him with pinpoint ecstasy. There was delight here. A swim in the void of responsibility, spilling obligations with each dive he took into the high-rise moment as if they were the run-off from a pool filled far too high with too much. Too many failures, lies, uncounted transactions and fled entanglements weighing down on him as if he’d plummeted to the bottom of deep ocean, his bones crushed and skin liquified by the intense pressure of now. He glided among industry, viewed the restlessness of evening endeavor and calculated nothing, instead letting the nature of math roll numbers and dividends around like marblesand cars on illuminated streets, sums collapsing down the straight avenues stretching about below like arteries from him, the new heart of this moment; the beating of his freedom a kettle drum echoing and lost in starless ascent. How his spirit soared in those moments. How his hands, so tenacious, released assumption, flinging conclusion high and away. For here was abandon, and it tasted like wine of perfect vintage, decanted in a vaccuum of demands and savored among the gleaming possibility he saw laid out before him like a red carpet at his premiere. He stepped like a star and crimson ran longer than another day, another week, like a small wound leaking failures as he inhaled promise.


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(at The Bleeding)

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