NIKI STERNER - BLACK INK (2014)

she woke up early on sunday morning, put on her panties and lip gloss and kissed him goodbye while he slept

he woke up to an empty bed and a sense of sadness.

he wanted to walk through rose gardens and eat ice cream with her on sundays

even though ice cream always made his stomach hurt.

but she was gone, always gone, shortly after dawn before the cars woke up and started honking their way through the city

gone just after the birds started their day in the wet, swimmy fog of the acrid lemonade sunlight of 6 a.m.

I wanted to scream to him “she doesn’t love you!” but my voice belonged to a new decibel level now, and all that happened was doors opened slowly and floorboards creaked.

she usually had plans with someone else, brioche french toast with investment bankers and fashion photographers

sometimes with her girlfriends where she would tell them embarrassing stories of the puppy eyed boys she kept around for warm beds and free cocktails

suffrage really worked out well for us, didn’t it, girls? nice knock-off purse. 

it’s a form of abuse, you know; sleeping with people you don’t love but who you know love you back

it’s a form of abuse to use people, even if they like it

you get your rocks off at the expense of someone’s feelings 

and let their adoring gazes and saccharine compliments feed your insatiable ego.

I wanted to tell him these things, but all I could move were the curtains without wind and the water pressure.

when someone leaves you on a sunday, the day of rest and walking in tandem hand in hand and syrupy pancakes and watered down coffee,

think about how you’d feel if their lips were on someone else’s and they were laughing at another’s stupid jokes

because that’s what’s happening, at a rooftop restaurant with their bug eyed sunglasses on and their Forever 21 dresses and platform wedges

it’s better to be alone with your ghosts.

I always wore better shoes…

Apr 19
brunch
Apr 19

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Tamsin van Essen

Erosion Series

This work explores erosion and the disruption of form. Focusing on biological erosion, I wanted to convey the idea of a host being attacked and eaten away by a parasitic virus, highlighting the creeping spread of the infection as it corrupts the body. I have produced a series of angular porcelain forms, sandblasted to wear the surface and reveal inner strata. This aggressive process, contrarily, creates a delicate vulnerability in the shape. The translucency of the porcelain and the interruption of the surface make it possible to glimpse through to layers beneath, creating a tension between the seen and the obscured.

(in a cool, dark room)

how do you fall asleep? voices in the head, imagined caresses on your lower back

my father died full of secrets, full of torment (they say)

he was in a cold room, with other people and no one at his side

my mother says she still feels him against her back, late at night

her guilt a balm that she feeds on without spice or oil.

now radios turn on and off without explanation on her favorite songs

and I sleep fitfully now, knowing something must be said and done

but knowing I won’t say or do them.

how do you fall asleep?

you’re back again, I see, running marathons in my dreamscapes

I envisioned dirty dishes and rolling hills and the upside down triangle curvature of your back

I want to sleep like I did before all of this happened

easy, peacefully, warm and full of grace (in a cool, dark room)

his old room was too hot and too bright, his new room is too big and too cold

and those secrets should be told;

Just not to me.

Apr 19
an unkindness of ravens
Apr 6

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Joel Morrison @ Almine Rech Gallery in Paris, France

Website

"The reflection of the sun on snow can blind you…"

"You don’t hurt, you just feel sleepy," he whispered. I watched the oil from his fingertips leave prints on the glossy magazine he glanced at, page after page, searching to find himself in the party pages.

That’s what it did to you? I mumbled, walking away, shaking my head, my shoulders loose and relaxed like a puppet.

She was like sunshine, or maybe clouds. Fancy free and pretty in the way birds are; feathers gleaming and hard to catch, but ridden with disease and likely to wound with their claws.

"He’s always in magazines," she said, eyelashes fluttering, small town Lolita so easily impressed with Big City boys. No, I said. That doesn’t mean much here.

But who says, really? A memory captured in publicly distributed print can be something special, can’t it? Something…validating? I shrugged my shoulders, tensed and aching.

He kept crawling to me, mumbling about my warmth as he pressed the sides of my body to his lips like a prayer, the oil on his fingertips creating prints on skin already wrought with marks. I didn’t want it. I didn’t want him. I need no published loverboys banging down my door, take the sunshine, won’t you? Girls with pale skin like mine burn too easily to be that close to someone who thinks they’re a STAR.

Mumbled excuses, ignored phone calls, emails written and saved as drafts, never pressing send. Moments spent sweating and nervous in bathroom stalls, endless showers trying to get those fingerprints off of my skin.

She kept asking and calling and breathing in shallow breaths, her lovely face becoming gaunt and rabid in her compulsion for a man she couldn’t have and I couldn’t get rid of. “Take sunshine,” I told him on printed notes, and he would come back with “the sun resides within you, the warmth of your skin tells me so”. I hated such admissions. They made me feel sick.

Soon enough, seasons changed, my subsciptions to bad magazines with too many ads ended, and I no longer remember fingerprints and a girl I once called Sunshine. New wallpaper, new lovers, new books. Then an invitation came in the mail, for a wedding. Fingerprints and Sunshine.

"I’m pregnant," she said, eyes wide and hair curled luxuriously against her enlarged busom and luminous skin. "It was an accident. But we’re doing the right thing, I think. Getting married. Making it official."

I stared at her, more sunflower than sunshine now, and just as stupid.

He dropped to his knees when he saw me. I could practically feel his fingertips grasping at the fabric of my dress, my belly flat and toned, nothing like the sweetly swollen stomach of his soon to be wife. I ached. She would break herself attempting to get him to love her. He would be like most men in magazines. 

Mutiny committed against a child not even born yet. 

"Would you be the godmother?" she asked me, eyes framed with lashes like a doe. I nodded. The captain of an unmanned ship.

"You keep your fingertips on sunshine or I’ll cut them off," I whispered to him as I left. He stayed on his knees.

Apr 6
Mutiny Has No Master (2010)
Apr 6

(Source: thelostboysnyc.blogspot.com, via nevver)

She woke up in the trunk of a broken down Chevrolet in the middle of what seemed to be an endless desert.

She had a sprained (but not broken) ankle, a throbbing head wound, and a strange, searing pain in her left elbow. During her 4 captive hours in the trunk she had also soiled herself and now smelled like piss and fear.
Her blonde hair, which was usually curled or teased into a comical looking college Barbie-esque hairdo, was now stringy and matted on the side where she had curled herself up in her temporary 4 x 3 prison. She laughed to herself silently, teetering on the edge of insanity. No one would think I’m attractive now, she thought. 

That is how the minds of her type of women worked. 

The top of the trunk had opened easily, strangely, once she felt the vehicle stop. Yet…no one was there. All she saw was the expanse of dirt and rocks, a few lone cacti trees, and the sun. The blazing, vicious sun.
All she did to get herself into this predicament was walk outside. Out of her apartment, down the stairs, towards the car her mother had given her which was never good enough. She had always wanted something bigger; flashier. That was her last thought before she felt the metal on the back of her skull and the hands on the flesh of her arms. She was out so fast she didn’t even have time to be scared, until she woke up in the trunk.
She had left her place about 8 a.m.; the sun told her it was now about noon, wherever she was. Her almond eyes became narrow slits in the sunlight; she raised her arm to cover her eyes and winced when her elbow cried in revolt. “Goddamn it!” she yelled, to no one in particular. The sound of her own voice frightened her; she jumped back and pressed against the car, searing the slice of midriff it came into contact with. She yelped and tears stung her eyes; her chest began to swell with self-pity. “WHERE AM I?!” she screamed. “WHERE ARE YOU?”
Of course, the “you” she referred to was the kidnapper, or, kidnappers. Who stops their car in the middle of the desert and leaves the captive home free? Her instincts told her “he” was around somewhere, waiting; watching. But the open expanse of desert would not allow for such pleasures. There was nowhere to hide.
She jumped back, delicately, being mindful of her ankle. She was tired of adding to the injuries already inflicted upon her. She bent and looked into and under the car; under the hood. She inhaled sharply. The entire engine of the vehicle was gone. 
She touched her fingers to her lips. She was scared.
* * * * * * * * 
I watched the blonde broad for 3 weeks before Greg and I snatched her. She did a lot of pretty boring, normal shit; bars with friends, couple-type shit with her wannabe model boyfriend; shopping. The thing I got to dislike about this particular broad was her attitude, about everything in general. She walked around like she owned the places she went; huge, bug-eyed sunglasses on her thin, horse-ish face, hair all poufed up, glittery lipgloss all over the place; her sausage-esque legs poured into stretchy jeans made by designer labels she bought from discount stores. Greg thought she was hot shit, but Greg also thinks Starbucks doesn’t burn their roast.
Me, I grew to hate her. In 3 weeks I never, not once, saw her do anything of merit. Everything she did revolved around herself. She was the personification of the MTV generation; mindless, spineless, ego-driven. A consumer, not a producer. She went to community college and “worked” in human resources. I could see her fat ass sitting at a desk all day running background checks and judging people to make enough money to pay the nerds in her classes to test for her. It fit.


The only person she seemed to acquiesce to was her harpy mother. Her father almost came off as a non-entity; I never heard or saw him speak unless he was alone. Whenever Blondie went home to visit, he would putter out to the garage and listen to the radio, muttering to himself. I felt sorry for the guy. I almost feel like I did him a favor by making Blondie disappear.
Blondie’s mother was repulsive. But she was paying me to do what I do, so my thoughts on her end there.
Greg thought her overweight, square jawed mother was hot. I told you, Greg has no taste.
* * * * * * * * * 
The sun had gone from hot to scalding in the hour since she had discovered the vehicle had been gutted. A hundred “fucks” had dropped from her lips and her head had begun to hurt even more under the pressure of the increased heat. She had moved inside the car to shield her from the sun; there was a warm breeze that would blow through the windows every now and again which would alleviate the stifling heat for a second or two, giving her an inhaled respite that didn’t taste like scorched pennies or battery acid.


She remembered the hottest part of the day ended around 2 p.m.; which meant after another hour or two it would start to cool down and she could, perhaps, fall asleep. All she wanted to do was sleep again. Her last attempt left her soaked in sweat against the leather interior of the car. She needed to get back in the trunk-fuck the fact that it smelled like piss-but it was simply too hot right now. This newly remembered fact gave her a fresh sense of hope and pleasure. She felt if she could just get back to sleep again, she would wake up somewhere else…
* * * * * * * * * * 
It was pretty easy to pinch her; she left at about the same time for work every morning, and most of her neighbors were pampered housewife types who slept in ‘til noon. I figured no one would notice her absence in the neighborhood anyway. What is one less blonde on a block of 20?
Her mom asked us to do it quickly and quietly-grab her, shoot her, pretend to rob her and go. Insurance money-her mother had a not-so-quiet gambling debt she needed to pay off and another little secret: a girlfriend. “My daughter has been nothing but a nuisance since her birth,” she told us. “I have no personal problem with my lifestyle…I’d shout it from the rooftops if I felt the need to, but if I’m going to divorce my husband, I want all ties with him destroyed. If our daughter is murdered in a freak, horrible act of crime, it lends plausibility to the fact I simply cannot bear to live with Harold anymore. He reminds me too much of “her”. I can escape quietly, with pity, and go wherever I want. I can finally live for myself. Certainly, with the way my daughter has turned out, no one will miss her. She has the emotional depth of a cream puff.” 


The conversation actually had me feeling sorry for Blondie before I started tailing her. 


Her mother gave me two grand in cash, all she had after her last loan shark payment, with a promise of 10% of the insurance settlement, which was somewhere around the $25K mark. Not bad for four weeks of work, in my opinion. Greg would only be needed minimally-his fee would barely cut into my profit, and besides…he did this shit for fun. I’d toss him a couple of comatose women every now and again and he was indebted to me for life. Greg: he of the temple of mediocrity.


And me, you ask? Why do I do this shit? Depends. Beats working in some stuffy office, kissin’ ass to a buncha suits, I think. Also beats slaving away in some restaurant kitchen, or some slick retail store, or waiting around to get my dick sucked on a college campus somewhere. It ain’t the money, although I do okay; most kidnap and hit-for-hire assholes do shit like this for much, much less. I suppose, in my own way, it’s fulfilling. Retribution-that’s the business I’m in. Every person I’ve ever killed has deserved it-deserved death and much, much worse. Blondie was the only one I felt sorry for, until I tailed her. Once I saw who she really was-a spoiled, selfish husk of a human in her oversized sunglasses and holier-than-thou attitude, I knew she belonged with the others. Let her mother get her money-she can eat pussy and gamble the rest of her pathetic life away in some beach community where I hope she’ll catch pneumonia and die early. Let her poor, rusted out shell of a father get some cash, too-maybe he can find a woman who won’t find it necessary to waste his life along with hers. 
And let me stay in the shadows, playing the punisher, gathering sins.
* * * * * * * * * * 
The twilight had begun to fall and the exhausting, endless heat gave way to indications the night would be quite the opposite. She looked at her dirt covered, urine stained tie-dye jeans and shook her head. What an outfit to die in.
She thought of her boyfriend. They hadn’t made plans to see each other tonight, which meant he probably wasn’t even aware of her absence…although they did email each other all throughout the day with things like pictures of dogs and extra “LOLs” and “<3’s”. How silly it all was, in retrospect. They were supposed to go on a cruise next month-she had bought a new, ruffly bikini for it. “I HATE YOU!” she screamed, to no one. Tears fell, heavy and hot, as she started to sob. “Why is this happening to me?!”
She thought of her best friends; they were probably out drinking without her right now. God, how she would kill for a drink. She had found a half empty water bottle under the driver’s side front seat and was sipping it in intervals, but a cocktail with extra ice would both cool her throat and numb the pain in her elbow. She gathered it was about 6 p.m. now. She should be home, watching TV. What the fuck did she ever do to deserve this? What COULD someone do to deserve being stuck in a wasteland like this desert, with no way out? With a half-worthless ankle, a throbbing, cracked elbow, and a head prone to dizziness and confusion? Fresh tears spring up again. She shook them away. She needed to conserve water.
* * * * * * * * * *
After Greg and I threw her in the back of the trunk, I dropped him off a few blocks from his place and threw him a couple hundred bucks. “Aren’t you going to need help getting rid of the body?” he asked, eyebrows knotted. I shook my head. “This one’s special. I’m taking her somewhere she’ll never be found.”
Greg shook his head. “You won’t get paid for a while doing that shit,” he said, but I didn’t care. The day before, Blondie had gotten a phone call from her mother. “Sorry, Mom, I can’t,” she said, her voice syrupy with fake regret. “I’m sorry Dad’s not feeling well, but I can’t miss this test today-it’s important. Can I come up tomorrow instead? It’s not like he’s going to die or anything.” I closed my eyes. Shortly thereafter, I followed her to a hair salon and a discount department store. There was no test that day. There was nothing but Blondie being herself. I left at sunset and drove to her parent’s home. Her father was in the living room, watching television, wrapped in a blanket, frail and washed out. At first I thought he was shivering, perhaps with sickness, but when I used my binoculars, I realized he was crying. On the table in the next room, there was a sliced cake, sad and beginning to dry. It was the poor fucker’s birthday. I had never seen anyone look so…alone 

I had driven away that night knowing Blondie and her pathetic mother were examples of the worst kind of human. Not my kind, the kind that repossesses life from those not fit to breathe it; oh no, their kind was worse: they exemplified the top tier of absolute selfishness. Blondie’s mother was soulless; she allowed her own needs to overwhelm both her husband and her child, aiding in her husband becoming the shadow of a man and her child becoming a sentinel set on her own pleasure and nothing else. My hands gripped the steering wheel and my heart ached for a man I didn’t even know. “Why’d you let them get to you?” I hissed, sad and angry and confused. “Why’d you let them turn you into this…?”
I knew then that Blondie’s mother would never get her money. I’d take Blondie out into the middle of the desert and let her rot, let her mother sit around waiting for insurance adjusters to give her what she “needed” to escape the life she made for herself, all the while her heart screaming for her lover, and her husband, the man she promised to love and take care of until death do them part wasting away to dust, like the sediment of the desert their daughter would die in, alone. I knew THAT is what I wanted to do.

I KNEW THAT IS WHAT THEY DESERVED.
* * * * * * * * * * 
The blazing sun of the morning woke her up, burning her eyes and throat with the acrid desert air. She choked, nauseated by the scent of urine on her clothes, and coughed up blood into her once manicured hands. She whimpered in pain.
The sun seemed to laugh at her, mocking her discomfort. 
The air smelled like death.

Apr 6
Three Cheers for Lying to Yourself (2010)
Apr 6

 

(via thedeathoffilm)

With the sort of lingering apathy afforded to all women, I catalogued my lovers and with my fingertips and memories they arose from the dead, like Lazarus from his tomb. Are breaths and the oily traces left from fingerprints enough to imprint the ether with something secondary, something left to chance or worse…fate? Pushing aside the velvet curtain of memory, the fog crept in on cue, exit stage left.

Oh, but with observations come responsibility, the type left to those with deft fingers on keys that scream names. Quiet the whispers in my head that lead to footprints on guardrails and cleanup crews on freeway underpasses. “I just wanted something better,” she breathed to me, with my hands on her head like a preacher about to baptize.

I want you to run (faster than you ever have before), run to the horizon, jumping off of balconies and screaming the name of your fathers loud enough to turn corpses in their graves. Live for something in the wake of this impending doom and cry to battle, wars fought for nothing more than pieces of paper we assign value to and let lead us into death. What is your currency in the land of Hades? The river Styx your guide for the price of a tale, perhaps, or a song. Orpheus and Eurydice would never make it in this generation, after her death he simply would have gone online to find a replacement and the Furies would go to sleep hungry.

Kiss me with something that says that I am more than just a whim for the moment, kiss me to tell me you are something, too? I keep dipping my hands in your pools for an answer but they are shallow and with that, bear no secrets. If this is so fleeting keep your lips off of my skin and find solace in your discardance like the rest of the names in my book.

What is life but fodder for the literate? Feed the moon her daily bread and be awarded with dreams. “You don’t need wings to fly…” she whispered. I baptized her in the shadows of the moon and my heartbeat as her name etched itself in my soul. Run to the horizon…

Mar 25
Horizon (2009)
Mar 25

myampgoesto11:

Bronze and glass sculptures by Miles Van Rensselaer | Artist Website

(via neoncrayon)

He fucked her in the back of a rented Jeep over the weekend and never called her again, as he saw some cellulite on those 40 inch legs when he was behind her and his hard on never recovered. 

"You gonna call me?" she asked when he exited on her boulevard;

"Of course, baby", he murmured, checking his phone.

Mar 19
L.A. Love
Mar 19

(Source: museumoffrost, via plasticbats)

Samir sat inside of a box inside of someone’s head.

He didn’t know how he got there or what he was supposed to do with said situation, but it was a relatively comfortable box so he didn’t complain.

Sometimes he would peek outside the box, through his host’s eyeballs, and try to figure out what was going on. Things were mostly a blur and jumble, but occasionally he got to see some trees (he missed trees intensely) and his host had an amusing dog named Samantha who made him smile. She would occasionally pee on the floor which always forced Samir out of his box since his host would have to bend over to clean it, knocking Samir out and against the optic nerve. Samir didn’t mind the cerebellum, but the optic nerve always gave him the creeps. 

Inside the mind, Samir was privileged to witness the synaptic fireworks of thoughts. It took him a while to identify at first, but soon enough he could interpret when his host was writing or painting or dancing or making love, all based on the neuron doctrine. Sometimes he would reach up, fingers spread, eyes filled with wonder as the lightning bolts of thoughts and actions passed before his eyes. Usually, though, he mostly napped and thought about trees.

His box could use some trees.

Feb 15
EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED (2014)
Feb 15

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Eli Craven.

The Endless Search for Substance

She smelled like white flowers and musk, but it didn’t matter to him. Her long, almost translucent hair waved like a mermaid tail down her back, the curve of her spine a slender “S” in his hands. None of it mattered.

She trailed her robes behind her, open, exposing her nakedness to the world inside of her home. There was no one there. The concrete floors and 20 foot ceilings held her suspended in sumptuous grief.

The winter rain clouds rolled in, two months too late, heavy with radiation. She would watch them glide across the sky, bedroom eyes just slits, wondering how her flowers were fairing at his home. She ached to caress their petals, feed them nutrients in the soil, whisper secrets to them as bees do. He would let them die. She yearned for the rain, heavy clouds brought her peace; the sun seemed to be for other people, people who were still whole.

She ate and bathed and slept in her sadness, kept it close like a secret. She let it take her like a lover at night, bent to its whims and wills. Her eyes would swell with tears, her chest rising and falling like waves on the ocean. Her sadness was a luxury; something she allowed herself to have like caviar or cake. She wasn’t ready to accept the realization that NOW was the only moment that mattered; wasn’t ready to let the past and all that it held go. For her, the past was something beautiful, something tender, something she sprinkled on her food and added to her bath. She rubbed it into her skin like a cream and wore it on her collarbone like diamonds.

The radiation swirling with the tides meant very little to her, at times, and then sometimes when it rained she noticed her skin would rise up in little bumps in the morning, and her joints would ache. She put a hydrangea outside and watched as all of its petals fell off in a single night after its first rain. Her lips pursed with tenderness; her silken hair glowed. Was entropy inevitable? She wanted things to stay the same.

He wrote her a letter in the spring telling her he’d moved; he missed her ever so much and was sorry for what had happened. It was a short letter; she put it on a shelf in her greenhouse and watched every day as the mist made the letters bleed; words into raindrops into puddles. Her greenhouse water was filtered, of course; most of the outside gardens in her city had begun to be moved indoors or tented. The natural rain, laden with radiation, simply destroyed everything it touched.

She could see herself aging, physically, on an almost day by day basis. She saw the drag of champagne glasses on her lips and the lack of sleep in her eyes and skin. Her aloe plants whispered to her, and their tonic became her own; she began growing greens and eating them constantly, peppering her sentences with leaves of basil and carrying mint to chew. Her eyes lightened; her voice seemed calmer, more feminine. Her translucent hair was cut, haloing her face like an angel. She hardly thought of him at all now, unless she was outside during the sunset or smelled the ocean on the breeze.

Soon spring turned to summer, the tides swirling in closed beaches, yellow ribbons screaming warnings away from the sand. He wrote her another letter, asking her to visit him in the fall. She put it in her greenhouse again, postcard suicide, but snatched it up before the first sprinkles fell upon it. She wanted to show him she was different now; and maybe he was different, too? She had not yet learned that loving someone does not mean that you own them, and no answers will come of looking for yourself in another. She packed a bag and boarded a plane, smelling of white flowers and musk.

When she saw him, her heart skipped a beat. The indulgent depth of her heartbreak rushed back tenfold, deepening her experience to such a degree she almost felt she was high on the emotions of the past. He saw her through the crowd and walked to take her bag; she wanted nothing more in that moment than everything he could never give her.

She returned home to her silks and robes and exhaled her pain all over them, feeling unfulfilled and like a self-saboteur and an orchid killer, as it seemed her misting system had committed harakiri while she was gone. She trailed her fingers over their limp leaves and tendons, crumpled pistons and petals, murmuring apologies and misting by hand. The pressure of the disappointment and responsibility inside of her began to mutate, become lighter, starting to float away as she became aware of the present moment as the only reality that mattered. Staring at a lady slipper, she noticed a  new layer of depth to its petals; a beauty she had never noticed before despite seeing it hundreds of times. In that moment, looking at something so fragile and so beautiful starting to decay, she realized that this was infinity. Entropy could be an illusion…or freedom.

Removed from her own sense of self for the first time, she felt the silken corolla on each groove and ridge of her fingerprints; she smelled her own perfume mixed in with the stalks of Mignonette a few feet away. She watched a symphony of sparkles emerge from her hand, her arm, her skin. She felt the endless expanse of an ocean of something (consciousness? awareness?) behind the lids of her eyes, her lips, her heart. This moment, she thought to herself. This moment.

Every day she awoke now became something different, something more aware, more present. Silence became a melody to her ears, solitude was a blessing. The winds blew radiation into the trees and people’s skin started to peel and their cars started to decay. Her concrete floors and 20 foot ceilings kept her suspended in safety. 

His last letter to her was a lament, an over-apology for hurting her again and not being able to give her what she needed. She wrote him back, her pen scratching secrets on orchid scented paper. “You owe me no apologies, although I appreciate your words,” she said, feeling a sense of peaceful stillness heavily, pleasurably, in her heart. “I loved you then and I love you now, but in two different ways. I asked for things that were not mine to ask for; expected things I have no right to expect, demanded things that are not mine to demand. For that, I am sorry. But now all I want is to live without restrictions, without choking myself on the past and living away from the present. Just know that I love you, the past is over and done with. Oh, and stay out of the rain.”

She sealed her letter with a kiss and trailed her way to the window facing north. She touched the windowpanes, as cold as ice against the lined palms of her delicate hands, and inhaled deeply. The lure of the past pulled at her hair and the back of her neck and at the tie of her kimono, weaving tales of pleasure and pain behind her. She stepped out onto her terrace, away from the moans of luxury, breathing in the freezing night air and savoring it the way she once would have with wine or an oyster. Stillness filled her and she heard the clouds above her exhale and begin to rain. 

Feb 2
THE ILLUSION OF ENTROPY