These two films will come to us. When me and Justin were playfully stoned and suffering conflicting narrative dissections the other night, trying to arrange and arrange; he smartly quipped, "Awe, fuck it. It'll come. It's New York City 1982. Get it?" I did. I knew instantly what he meant. We'd just gather our interesting people and let the narrative happen organically. I trust them. As artists, we've evolved from talented stutterers to breathers. Why write the beauty out of life. Just point. Just say. Breathe.
I just awoke from a nightmare. That's why I'm up. I'll simply call the nightmare a domestic affair. In it I was loved physically at one venue and then beaten by faceless, ignorant beings at another, and neither episode interested me more than the other.
- Kindrid Parker