We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations...
Artist, musican, photographer, poet, saint at heart, sinner in practice, animal-lovin, truth-seekin, hopeless romantic trying to carve out a meaningful existence while tripping on the inhumane, who would rather be floating in the middle of the ocean listening to her lungs fill and deflate, but will settle for a beautiful life on the island of Vancouver...
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