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Vivian Maier

It's a late Sunday night, the only light shining in my eyes is a reflection of the snowy city sight. While the rest of the world sleeps, I slam doors with poetry. Hidden underground, far away from streetcar sounds, we drink wine, talking louder all the time. After midnight, we stumble outside. It's like we're the only people alive under these snow covered skies. We talk poetry and street photography. How Vivian Maier could be Amelie. Stories of years kept in boxes for the finder to reveal. Art safely tucked away in a nanny's brain.

How being weird justifies all your strange. People don't linger around the strange, they keep their curiosity for things they can taste. Like all different ways to eat PB and J. If they would only have stayed in your strange haze, eaten a spoonful of your strange taste. Then art would have had an audience. Then you would not have been the odd one out. You would have been the artist. Be called the artist. You would drink your coffee cold and wear fancy glasses. Take pictures of garbage bins. Of angry women, children crying, snapping everything in sight. Do all these things you did that made you the weird woman. But this time, people wouldn't call it strange, art would just be a matter of taste.

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