Shake me, wake me, hit me, fuck me. I just want to feel right now. Pain, if any at all. There's lack of motion here. I'm stagnant longing for a ripple, festering inside my own brew. Humming a tune to carry me out.
It was the rainy season in Cambodia, a time of year when it seemed the skies had cracked open and would never heal. Hiding from the Khmer Rouge, driven from his home, Heng continues to live in the shadows of night. His favorite time to come alive and play amidst the swirling smoke of cigarettes, with a cool river of whiskey down his throat and the sweet scent of aerosol filling his lungs. Other times, paints and brushes speak to him in a secret language inspiring him to coat his boards thickly and create. On any given night you will find him flirting with the muses who whisper in his ear, placing on a canvas images and colors only existing in his mind, he becomes entranced in a meditative state-hopelessly lost in his own thoughts. But then again, he may not be looking to be found.