Photography and words highlighting my persepective of the city I reside.
My ink is how I let go of things, when I got sick and almost died, women I’ve loved but it didn’t work out, people I’ve lost. This is the tatt I’m getting next week. It’s from Hunter S. Thompson’s Hells Angels and a one word misquote of André Breton author of the surrealist manifesto. This is for the last one. The one I still remember every moment of the night we first met and know had things been different, in forty years I would have woken up next to her in the morning seeing her wearing grey hairs and wrinkles and fallen in love all over again.