Neon lights in endless nights
Nostalgia grabs us by the throat
Holds tight and blocks all our sight.
Hides death, decay, bloody coat
On the walls, casts on us palls
Covers lies and false shapes.
So we fall into mall’s
Clutches, never wanting escape.

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This one came to me while outlining my next feature film – kind of a beat tone poem in a way.

I’m a big fan of Synthwave bands like the Midnight and FM-84. They all touch this emotional longing for a perfect 80’s teenage summer night that never existed, because the moments of our memory can’t exist like they do in our memory.

That’s what this poem (and the upcoming film) are about.