This is not a book of poems. This is a box of glimpses, captured and attempted at translation. Then strung around a spine with invisible glue. This is me; this is you. And this may not be me, and this may not be you. This may be an album of noises and voices, of stained and tattered photographs about daily clichés we dwell too briefly on. This may be a search party following an unconnected trail of breadcrumbs in naked daylight, breadcrumbs that run from thresholds to bustling streets for the sole purpose of getting lost in hope of being found. Who said a trail of breadcrumbs was only needed in the dark forest? Stay quiet enough, and you will discover that images speak too. They have more to offer than their face value. Why then should I ask you to read when I seem to desire sound? You see, everything may have a sound, but words written down sound more sound. All you have to do is…listen.
