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Steven Holliday
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He was sitting on the steps of the plaza, His eyes kept darting this way and that as he wrote in to his small notebook beneath the tree. I think that he is looking for something; his eyes are saying: "lost"--or maybe just "misplaced". Does he make sense of surroundings; manipulate his environment? His mother yells at him, 'cause he's always high, but so is she. What he looks for and what he finds might be the same thing.
Recognition? Maybe just a place to rest his head.
My inspirations are a mixture of everyday life and the desires of our ego. Cannibal Ox, Ian Bavitz, Sean Daly, Edgar Allen Poe, You.
Holliday's Genres: Short, Poetry, analytical, exploratory, songwriting
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