The hilarious thing about humans was how literal they took the concept they called “time”. Time, ticking away endlessly and imposing rules on everything like some maniacal Mongolian ruler wielding a stick called age and entropy he beats everyone over the heads with constantly. Humans, in their comical and horrifying NECESSITY to classify things and create rules in order to pretend they understood things, took time so literally it could embarrassingly be said it was elevated to a god-like status in their eyes. People wore time keeping devices on their wrists and everyone’s home screens and mobile phones proudly displayed the hour on glowing screens.

The funny thing was, humans, on some level, knew that time was while perhaps not an illusion, was not necessarily something subject to hard and fast RULES. When anxious, sad, or hungry, most humans experienced time slowly, and painfully. Seconds ticked by like delayed drops of Chinese Water Torture to the mind. However, when having fun, time seemed to zip by like lightning. Some humans, especially while intoxicated and amongst other humans to which they related, could spend hours together only to realize the hours had passed as the sun began to rise. Likewise, when in the company of a lover, humans regarded time as almost coming to a foggy, pleasure-induced standstill.

Aug 25
Musings on Time, 1

Twenty seven steps from the back of the van to the bridge

Eleven steps from the bridge’s edge to the secret point at the second junction where suicide jumpers made their final decisions

One step over the railing from A to B

A being your life

B being your death

It was cold that night on the riverfront.

"You’re going to give us the money or this is the end of the walk for you," Olin growled, the wind whipping his words away almost before I could hear them. I grunted, ready to die. I never planned on paying back that money. I always knew this was how it would end.

My alligator loafers were slippery on the edge of the bridge. Olin’s hands were clammy and felt like vices on my biceps. “Why are you making us do this, man? Why end it like this, over nothing?!”

I thought back to the month leading up to this moment: the nights of crying myself to sleep over her absence; remembering all of the horrible things I said to her in anger and jealousy; burying my hurt and rage over the death of our daughter in harsh words and drunken nights were she wailed “it wasn’t my fault, I know that you blame me but it wasn’t my fault”. Truthfully, I never blamed her…but something felt so GOOD about letting her think that I did.

The riverfront yawned below me, hungry for another sacrifice to the winter gods it represented. Olin’s team sat huddled in the van, probably playing cards, waiting for his return. He would either be alone and quiet, or with a sniveling broken man crying for another chance. I vowed to make it the former.

I lurched towards the water, Olin’s hands a memory on my Zegna suit jacket. I saw my daughter’s face in the water, crying out for me to hold her, cuddle her to sleep like I used to on the nights I wasn’t working. I thought about my wife walking out on me, thought about the money I borrowed with no intention of paying it back, buying $3,000 suits and $8,000 rugs for an apartment I had no intention of returning to. I had drunk a hundred bottles of Boerl & Kroff, eaten a thousand jars of caviar, slept with the city’s toned and tightest call girls. None of it soothed me at all. None of it mattered.

I felt my little girl’s hands on me as I hit the water. An icy grave for a broken heart.

Aug 10
No One Will Mourn You
Jun 7


Silvio Severino



Burn that fog off, baby

Let those waves crash over you

Swim out to the break as far as you can and don’t come back…

Wipe that smile off, baby

Let that sadness come over you

Walk out to the desert sun and don’t come back.

We’re gonna hold each other’s hands at the end of the world

Build an ark for the animals, little boys, little girls

We’re gonna watch as it burns, we’re gonna sail far away

Build a world out on Mars where the children can play…

Wave that train goodbye, baby

Let your remorse wash over you

Run down those tracks as far as you can and don’t come back…

Brush those tears goodbye, baby

Let some relief pour over you

Give yourself to the formless and don’t come back.

You didn’t come here to make money, to chase fortune and fame

You didn’t come to take lovers and forget all their names

You didn’t come to be different because we all are THE SAME…

Burn that fog off, baby, and open your eyes…

Jun 7

Josh Soskin.
Jun 6


Josh Soskin.

The feeling of rejection swirled inside of him like a riptide, threatening to drown out any other emotion besides abject despair and complete, terrorizing loneliness. Every morning at dawn and every evening at sunset he walked alone, watching others he felt no connection to drive around in fossil fueled cars and on death wishing bikes, all screaming for purpose and getting no response in return. 

The mirror showed a face full of lines and want; want for approval, want for comfort, want for love. He had experienced many different kinds of affection in his lifetime, but he was unsure he had ever been loved. Most people felt this way; lonely, dejected, separate from others as well as themselves, but he did not recognize this and felt no association to them. The world, full of puzzle pieces meant to fit together seamlessly in order to create a picture of unparalleled beauty, continued to operate under the idea of detachment. Everyone felt it, but no one knew what it meant.

For her, feelings were pools to sink into to hide, away from the harsh glare of the sunlight and opinions of others. Every breeze gave her pause, every look made her quiver in anticipation something would hurt her, or worse. She walked around knowing separateness was an illusion, yearning for connection and peace, running mostly into those who were too rough and too stupid to fondle such delicate skin. Her pools kept her safe, and kept her from experiencing true joy.

Her face showed sleepness nights and an ever growing need for validation, from someone or something or the end of the world. Her eyes were tired; blood pooled darkly beneath them as a sign of impending doom. Her skin was pale and paper thin, like a doll someone made and forgot to play with. Aching and yearning for a touch, a caress, a whispered word in the night, she stayed up for hours reading words and dreaming dreams where she was choked with sea water and tendrils from pea plants.

Inside one is the key to love, affection, and validation;

Inside the other is the key to protection and peace;

The longer we stay apart, the farther the puzzle pieces drift away…

Jun 1
Jun 1


Angela Deane

Ghost Photographs

Acrylic on found photograph

2012 - ongoing

Website  Tumblr

My mother came from Boston, bred into a family that never spoke about their emotions and pair-bonded based on hedge funds and educational backgrounds. She ran away when she was 17 and never looked back, despite losing a trust fund which was whispered about at the dinner table once I had gone to bed and the wine was being poured in billows. 

My father came from Santa Cruz, a child of the sun and the cold, meager waves that crashed onto the shores in a hippie town. He doesn’t know who his father was or remember his name. His mother died years before I was born, and he never spoke of her. I saw a picture, once; she looked like my mother. Long, dark hair and eyes like lipid pools.


The two of them did the best they could in the balmy Southern California wasteland we can San Diego; Dad worked for the gas company and Mom worked part time at the local library. Neither of them ever seemed to want for much, content with just themselves, each other, and me, their first born and only son. We had a small apartment they still keep, a balcony with a tiny garden where the marigolds I planted in 7th grade still bloom.

Most children rebel against their parent’s attempts to control; I never rebelled, per se, but I knew that their staid life was not for me. I enrolled in the Navy the minute I turned 18, anxious to travel and see things I could share with my parents in an effort to get them to break out of their routines. I could never understand how two people could be so content to simply drink wine and grow flowers and sleep 8 hours a night…

The Navy was nothing like I thought it would be. I sat at a desk for 6 hours a day and wandered the decks of ships by night until I couldn’t think anymore, passing into dreamless fits of sleep, waking shiny with sweat, laden with secrets I could never remember come dawn. The women were classless, obsessed with climbing ranks, and most of the men were boring automatons who were there for the free college money and sign up bonus. I grew restless; weary. I felt different from these people; never superior, just…different. I yearned for something formless; nameless. I yearned for…life?

In Panama I found something I had never felt before; a sense of peace and belonging. When the ship set sail, I stayed on land and became a deserter. I stopped writing home, stopped calling old friends on mobile phones. I started walking the city from dawn until dusk, learning Spanish and catching murmured tales of Noriega from the elderly. Much of Panama City was covered in glittering high rises, sophisticated women, and the wealthy elite. I took lovers and wandered in and out of the streets before dawn, watching the sun glitter off of windows that shined as the sun burned the fog off of the coast.

Eventually I walked past the architectural facades and began searching the grasslands of South America for gauchos and tiny spots I could camp on, trying to make the last few dollars I had last as long as I could. I sent a telegram to my mother in my last civilized stop-I had spent what I considered a vast sum on a room with running warm water and a bathtub to luxuriate. A tele came back with fierceness, to come home. My father was dying.

I flew back home, flagged for UA by the Navy on my passport. I knew the ramifications of my actions would have to be dealt with. Not now, I said. Just…not now.

My father laid in a hospital bed tangled in tubes and with wires telling the world his current physical status. The message: delayed. The meaning: unknown. I sat by his bedside with my mother’s long, dark hair grazing my hand as she clutched it. Tears fell, hot and heavy, on her knuckles as she wept for a love she was not ready to release yet. A man who had given her all the excitement she ever wanted, all the security she ever needed. A blue blood who’s blood ran red. 

My father died on a Sunday. I took his bag of belongings back to the house, laid down on the couch, and closed my eyes. 

Apr 29
Red Blood
Apr 29


Since 2010, Jost Franko has been photographing herders in Slovenia’s Velika Planina, a traditional community in the foothills of the Kamnik-Savinja Alps. A look at some of the photos:

(Source:, via darksilenceinsuburbia)

It’s hot, too hot in this room.

You can’t sleep in this humidity, it chokes you while you rest.

I get up and walk around and look at her body in the pale sunlight of the morning, covered in tangled white sheets with tiny feet sticking out of the bottom. The heat never seems to bother her.

The view from my window is empty; devoid of all movement and pleasure. No sense to look outside.

She whispers words to me at night that don’t make any sense in the morning. I like to think and misinterpret them while I write; I will bring them up later and start a fight.

I’m not sure love is real. I think it’s just a name we give to our loneliness in the morning.

Apr 27
Apr 27



I swallowed the last of my coffee and tipped the waitress on my way out. She smelled vaguely like crushed lilies and had a pleasant smile.

Hospital corridors are cold, lonely places. It doesn’t matter what type of shoes you wear; they always squeak when you walk. The smell of death and old flowers littered the air.

My mother breathed artificially; tubes and wires and electrodes hooked up everywhere. Paper thin skin and blue veins like deep water. I kissed her hand as ritual and left her to the nurses.

Death is a funny thing; the more you fear it the faster it comes. I can tell when I crush someone’s trachea whether or not they’ve been waiting for the moment. They exhale with defeat instead of defiance.

Three things appeared at every scene I walked into: black stockings, designer wallets, and feathers. Bird feathers. I don’t know where they come from; certainly fancy hotel rooms and mansions don’t have birds nesting in their attics and anterooms. Perhaps I bring them with me. 

A harbinger.

The waitress wasn’t there the next day when I came in for my coffee. It made me sad, just a little. I swam around in the feeling, trying to build it up enough to where I could actually flinch in pain, but it never came. I hadn’t felt in so long.

Hospitals all smell the same…

Different people liked different things. Some wanted things to look natural or accidental, to collect insurance or inheritance money. Many wanted things as gruesome as possible and asked me to stretch the pain out. “Torture them,” they’d say, especially the women. “And the partner?” I would ask, and shoulders would shrug. “Do whatever you see fit.”

The rain has a way of cloaking you; it seems to confuse people and you can slip in and out of places much easier. The only unfortunate side effect is footprints; but I wear a shoe much larger than my foot.

Seems to throw them off when they suspect something.

I try to do it in their sleep. There is always a moment of realization, but I try to be respectful when their eyes light up and lips part in the beginnings of a scream. “This is on behalf of Mary,” I would say, or “Steven” or “Alice” or “Bob”. Whoever had the money to pay me to even things out was the name I would say. Scorned hearts know no boundaries when it comes to exacting revenge.

Black stockings are the trademark of a whore. I always asked for them when the dancers came calling.

Once, I took a trip to the ocean. I hadn’t seen it in so long I forgot what the salty air smelled like and how it felt to walk in sand. I wore shoes that fit. The sun shined on me and I didn’t dart for the shadows. There were ducks in the ocean. I had never seen that before.

I brought a picture back and put it in my mother’s room. She hadn’t opened her eyes in months. “I’m going to take you away from here,” I said, and I swear I saw her eyelids flutter.

At peace.

There was once a woman I tried to save. Her name was Tracy. Her boyfriend left her for her best friend and she wanted him dead, like they all did. “I don’t care what you do, just kill them,” she said, eyes puffed up and red. Her hair was the color of chocolate and her lips were plump. I had trouble imaging who would leave her.

I shook my head. “I don’t think you’ve had enough time to think about this,” I said, leaning forward. She wiped her nose with a tissue and looked at me. “What?” she asked, her eyelashes rimmed with tears that glistened in the afternoon sun. She blinked and a tiny star fell onto her cheek. It distracted me.

"You’re too young; naive. You’ll regret this. He wasn’t your husband. No life-long bond was broken. He’s a wretched, dirty thing. Inhuman. But deserving of death? Is that the burden you want to carry for the rest of your life?"

She looked at me and twisted her face into a grimace. “He has to pay,” she said, pointing at her heart. “He has to pay for this.”

I broke his legs and put his new girlfriend in a coma. That seemed to appease her.

The waitress at the diner looked a little like Tracy. But Tracy smelled like expensive French perfume, not lilies. A gift from her father, I’m sure.

Sometimes I wondered where she was. Married in Connecticut, perhaps. Or somewhere on the French Riviera spending someone else’s money.

That was the last time I tried to talk someone out of what they wanted. It left me with a metallic taste in my mouth. I’m no one’s savior. Let their decisions be their burden to bear.

My money piled up under my mattress. Almost, I breathed. Almost.

I liked to observe the situation before acting. Walk around darkened homes and glittering hotels to get a feel for the people involved. Who were these deserters, these breakers of tender, bruised hearts? Cheaters and adulterers. My crucifix was tucked under my shirt and jacket at all times. Preacher man.

The stockings were almost always in a pile next to the bed; few women wore them to sleep. The thigh-high type pinched when you tossed and turned; garters cut dents into soft, supple skin. Designer wallets where always either on the dresser or still in the gentleman’s pants pocket. Hermes seemed to be a favorite. 

I would run my taped fingerprints over the items, look at the photographs and art upon the walls, and sometimes gaze out of the windows to the outside world before judgment began. My lips never parted until the eyes realized what was happening. My tools where those of rope, tape, blades, and bullets. Feathers followed me like a calling card.

But this night was not the same.

I let myself into a large estate; larger than what I was accustomed to. My senses where on overload; I was expecting security but saw none. Cameras were easy to avoid; no dogs were on the property. I tensed the wire between my hands; ready to pounce and choke. I eased into the bedroom. A light was on.

"Hello," he said, gun aimed at my head. "I see she sent the best."

I stopped but didn’t drop my wire. “Expecting me?”

He nodded. “It’s only fair. But you won’t be conducting any work here. Get out.”

I nodded and left. It never occurred to me he could have shot me in the back. I simply left, drove to the client’s home, left her money in the mailbox, and drove to the hospital.

I took my mother to France. She died, eyes open, looking at the ocean. I never worked again.

Apr 19
Harbinger (2008)
Apr 19


Nuria Riaza



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
Apr 19


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.