I am a dilettante of shifting and various proclivities, 25, living in the Californian desert. Each dream bleeds into the next, a process that subdues my poetry to a constant psychoautobiographical metaphor. The only constants have been free verse, a gently squawking violin, and hyperbolically hued imagery.
I live for validation, aspirations of fame, Warholianism, and, recently, my self. Oh, and faulted honesty. As such, I would love to correspond with [you], for we've found each other, haven't we?