HOME STORY (LA)
Text by Ben Feldman
This is not my life. These are not my toys. This is not my beautiful house. Domesticity and the responsibilities assigned to it is the absence of glamour. I remember the Talking Heads song. How did I get here? The days are sticky and bright. There are so many primary colors. It’s the morning after a birthday. Am I the person I was last night or am I the sweaty hangover today? Nothing looks familiar. Nothing tastes the same. But at the same time, it’s exactly what I expected. Living in a memory. A repeat. A script. And I can’t feel it rushing past me so my mind wanders. Letting the days go by. Same as it ever was.