Fig Tree Gallery

Alter of an alternate Reality ​ If I could paint the sound of a guitar and conjure the ocean from a cricket’s tear— then I might believe in the new math and self cleaning ovens. ​ If I could balance a toothpick and two blades of grass on a half note’s shadow, then mortgage the moon. ​ But if you’re alive and reading this, you know the weapons of mass destruction ride in sleek black limousines washed in orphan’s tears and detailed by barefoot children ​ of foreclosed homes, while rolled up window