An ascension of melancholy, as pure as emotion can get. Distant is any rapture, isolated between the potency of neon projection and dense congestions of reticent life exhibit little discernable empathy. We seek our euphoria in abstractions of fulfilment, simulations of a moment or a feeling. Love is something of a procedure, imbued either between the transience of promiscuous relations or the nostalgia of the past; yet never for an affinity of passion between two souls.

Yet, manifesting in attenuated mist, he yearns. In the textures and times of embellished sentience, there's nothing more tangible than the tender, even coarse, exchange of fulfilled eyes.

An exuberant meditation into human connection, simmering in iridescence.