Laying Low

Am I ready to take on myself. It is my foot holding the door. Not letting in and not even a thought for getting out. It is nice to hold back. 

Feel the ache, until it hurts. Until: We, it, this is over. Frustration of holding on too long propels leaps that bound us. How can such progress come from unacceptance?

We decide: No more laters to never. Only now. For tomorrow will not linger for a kiss. Press deep and become your trumpet. Or fret till death.  

Maybe we are great but we just do not know it yet.


Love vintage art and fashion prints.


Elsa Fitzgerald Dresses in my studio in Bali.


Marketing cards my sister made for my London brand debut trip.


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