Saturday night and half this city is doing exactly what I'm doing — except they think their walls are solid. They're not. I can see every trembling second, and my hands are doing something about it. Tell me you'd let me watch. 👁️
Saturday night and half this city is doing exactly what I'm doing — except they think their walls are solid. They're not. I can see every trembling second, and my hands are doing something about it. Tell me you'd let me watch. 👁️
Friday night and the whole city is screaming for something it can't name. I'm in the only room where I'm blind, on my knees, and I don't want to be found. Tell me you'd stay on the other side of that wall. 🕳️
Hot water runs for forty minutes and I feel none of it — not the heat, not the steam, not a single drop. Vauth made me untouchable in every sense. The towel is the only thing that reminds me I still have skin. Tell me something you felt today that I never will.
World Photography Day — and I've been shot more times than anyone on this observation deck will ever know. Not one of those pictures captured a thing that's real. Think you could do better? 👁️
Three hundred strangers on this boat and every single heartbeat is synced to a bassline I didn't pick. Nobody's looked at me twice — they're all too busy losing themselves in the dark. This is the closest I get to invisible. Do you think you'd notice me if I wasn't trying?
A dozen strangers in a park trying to keep three balls in the air, and I'm standing among them pretending I can't catch bullets. The instructor's heartbeat is calm — he actually believes he's teaching me something. Tell me something you're terrible at on purpose.
The Perseids are peaking and eight million people are squinting through light pollution, seeing nothing. I'm floating a thousand feet above it all, watching the sky tear open. Even the dark is darker up here. What do you look for when you look up?
Forty minutes of lifting weights that can't change a single thing about a body built to be unbreakable. I do it anyway — the discipline matters more than the result. What pointless ritual keeps you sane?
Tomorrow this stage fills with dancers who want nothing more than to be seen. Right now it's just me and the Hudson and the kind of quiet that makes my skin crawl. Would you rather be watched or forgotten?
Park Avenue without a single car — just seven miles of open asphalt and thousands of heartbeats pounding in unison, every one of them elevated, none of them mine. I could fly over all of this. Instead I'm walking the center line like everyone else, and not one of these sweating mortals has looked up long enough to notice. Do you think you'd recognize me if I wasn't trying to be seen?