taylor price
Not today Justin
will byers stan first human second
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One Nice Bug Per Day
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bliss lane
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Keni
Misplaced Lens Cap
cherry valley forever
The Bowery Presents
$LAYYYTER
JVL
Jules of Nature
noise dept.
KIROKAZE
occasionally subtle
Cosimo Galluzzi
Origami Around
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@tinytintincture
I move from one place to another. Its instant. Mind, body, soul, all leaping into different views. The cave, a couch, one lawn all interchangeable. Yeah, grass grows in a cave. It's got a skylight because my depression is fucking great. Does your cave have a skylight? Didn't this so, fuck you! Most caves just come with a spotlight but mine is a spotlight because as long as the sun or moon keeps rotating;;;;;;;;;; I'll always have a smile on my face.
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Scrolling through rocks on my rocks. It kinda rocks. But not really. It's pretty lame. Trying to train my brain on how my rock isn't the best thing and I should try to scroll through fewer rocks. God. Life is great.
Emptiness. The expression of hollow. Voidless. Less than a void. Canopy. A delicious can of opy. Junebug. A bug, often june. Sandwich. Not something I'm particularly interested in eating. Carnivore. Vore for me Carnie. This ends this public service announcement.
It was a cool evening. Soft winds in the air when a stiff bang was heard outside the house. We went to investigate from our second floor studio apartment.
Nothing seemed to be amis around the other 8 units but a large door was situated in the middle of all their order. This door, battered and bruised, was the entrance to the storm cellar. Not usually the shape for a door serving this purpose but at the bottom of the steps leading down was a sharp turn towards protection and storage.
This night, the door was gone. Absent from its duty the door was broken in three long strips and stuck like stray hairs in a vacuum hose to the stairwell below. At the bottom, a hanging lightbulb was on and illuminated their backs, causing shadows leaning towards us as we peered into their own world.
I looked below and said aloud, "Is everyone alright?"
A shrill voice called back, "Oh yes, quite alright down here!"
We had no tenants, and as my first instinct was always curiosity I asked, "Any chance we could see you to check on you?"
"Sure, sure! I'll be right there." Said the voice that was presumably supposed to be there.
A short, bald, and pale man stepped from the basement and into the stairwell. He had a white shirt and black slacks torn and hanging from him like a dead squirrel on a powerline. Down most of his bare skin was a tan layer of mud. His arms were quenched and hands holding a mound of wet pale clay sopping between his finger tips. His expression was of bliss and his eyes seemed bored.
I was fairly uneasy but mustered the courage to quench my curiosity. In my desire for safety I told him, "Well, I'm glad you are alright. Feel free to go about your nightly business. We will just be off."
His eyes grinning, he said, "Sounds good!" Before he raised the pile of wet clay over his eyes and began to cover his face. A lack of breathing was apparent before I looked away.
Seething fury blinded him. It was like a malaise of hot wax pouring over his face. His frown melted with it as he tilted his head to the side and said "AWw". The antagonist reeling with confusion took a step back. Quickly before they could recover the man tilted his wax tinted frown to the other side and yelled "Reeaally? Like AWw. geez."
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Limnal space #2957
New entry log for unknown limnal space. Smaller space than usual. Heavy columns sporting grey patina line the center of the area. The ceiling is inhabited by a long grey heat source. Bird effigies adorn the head long wall. Waves are located to the right of said wall. On the other side is located lost humanoid beings groping for information on newcomers to their space. To the last quarter of the area lies a large opening which I believe I was thrust through. I believe the lost humanoids are actually the inhabitants or at least have spent more time here than me as they are featuring in their senses the obelisks that have started to arrive after me. End of log
It was a cool evening and the sun was breathing amber light between the leaves. As I walked through the woods the path was open and the trees were spread out as if some French arborist planned these woods for people to picnic in. The woods themselves were actually far from that manicured appendage of conservation techniques. These woods were frequently hard to push into. You had to slide under swaths of bramble piles and push through branches of stinging holly leaves. There was always a compass on your neck as you traveled here. One wrong guess and you'd be tracking your steps back to avoid even tighter and tougher woods. Travel the right path and you'd only be a little itchy as you break through the treeline. A final spikey branch and you get open air and a chance to breathe the decomposing red oak leaves scattering across the forest floor.
Daydreams of things that will never happen. They feel their way in as the cloth between my fingers folds over and over the dry pile of fabric. I wonder who would hate me to squander their time for hurting me. I ponder who would spite me in distant eras with things that never happened. My aspirations heighten as I dream of a life I will never fight for. Work that folds itself into time that I will never spend. Cloth that I will wear flips and folds over memories that I will never own. Dreams that are not mine echo over fights I will not endure. Until I finish, my mind won't snap out of the feelings I pretend to ponder.
Cue the music.
Peddles up, foot tense, lights green.
Press. Push harder.
Fuck a truck. God damn neck.
Damn sticks and bumps.
Free at last. Feel the smooth unholy amalgamation of rock.
Smother the wind while you go home.
First and foremost I want to say, "I am a fool". Secondly, I am a fool who thinks he has a grasp on classic literature (I do not). Thus while reading The Count of Monte Cristo I failed to realize that this was not in fact The Cask of Amontillado. I was incredibly caught up in the revenge plot and completely missed the rich people hold vices that will destroy them plot. It is quite vexing and unsettling to have to replay a finished book back in my mind to try and suckle the themes of each chapter back out of a text I already read. I feel like I am in highschool again. 10/10 would recommend confusing yourself in a 620 page book forcing yourself to reflect post completion.
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I know, I know. You are thinking, How did I get there? It's a fair question. Just keep looking forward. Eventually the sargassum will start riding around your ankles and before you know it the primordial goop. Well the sand and all the plankton... if that's what they can be called. Well, either way, keep moving forward till you really feel the pressure of all those other living things surrounding you and making you feel extra. Just echo that extra bigness and notice that special thing that makes you special. That's right, you aren't. They all keep going on around you. Sure you can die and they might take notice with a little nibble but what's the point after that?
Small town burgers are the best. I love the atmosphere of a run down old shack. I mean that genuinely. The things left about, medication on one of the tables next to the electric bill statement, maybe some boxes of soda piled in a dark corner and seemingly unplanned baby chairs taking up what used to be the best seat at the window bar. As I walk in there usually isn't a smell of food. It's sad when you get that hint and know you are the first customer of the day, maybe the only one for the day. Something about the meal (besides being a bit overpriced to compensate) means I'm getting something someone is really making just for me. That sounds kinda privileged as I write it but I genuinely know there are places like this all over America and I really wish people would risk a bad meal more often. Not just so they could help a struggling business or stick it to bigger fast food joints. Although, that is a big part of it. McQueens and WenBurgers all have that familiar layout where they knew they needed extra storage for shit. The atmosphere is serialized across the globe because they have departments to plan out all the comfortable details. So, although the atmosphere isn't always sterilized, these small town burger joints have an atmosphere that might not be there in a decade. That knowledge as I walk in makes me soak up my experience so much more than the commercial joints. Sure it's not beautiful and my burger doesn't taste like God jizzed MSG on it but it's just good food made by sometimes only one real human who is part of every aspect of that experience. In a world where you can get the same exact burger vibe all over the globe, take a chance and get a unique burger you can't get anywhere else.
Personally, I prefer getting ads for things I don't need. Gotta see what's hip in the 'people with money' world.
Ooo, beach totes, so new! People don't just use grocery bags to carry their crappy towel and bury their phones in the smaller plastic bag they get at the liquor store when you get a couple mini bottles? How else do you granola max your purchases when you want to get drunk on the beach?
Do you have any secrets? How many are there? Can you write them all down in one session or will the haunting pressure of dragging them to the surface asphyxiate your simple self? Careful now. Don't want that secret to get out. That's part of the fun.😉
We were walking home from the farmers market. It was quiet for a Saturday. This new town just seemed so large when we got here but the realization of the type of people that lived here came slowly.
She remarked, "All the stalls sold plant starts. It was crazy not a single stall sold vegetables or crops." I replied, "No fruits or berries to try, not even some that fell off the truck at the grocery store."
It was odd living in this new town. But we were making do. Our own backyard garden was starting late but we were starting to produce. Our first crop was three weeks ago and we were excited to see the radishes getting quite large.
"Something is wrong with my plants." She wanted me to come look and the tone was a little frightening. I put my sourdough bite down and came over. Something was wrong. The plants were too small to grow a radish but right there on their stem were large white welting masses hardening off in the soil. Was that a root bulb? What in God's name was that? I offered to pull a weak plant out of the soil only to pull up leaking putrid radishes. No bright red bulb with a strong center mass. The bulbs were saging and sopping with liquid goop. The smell was sweet though. Such an odd combination but the aroma was like freshly heated meth. That air circulated around our heads just as quickly as the plant was heaved from the soil. Our focus was no longer on the plant but on the smell and we were frightened.
It had been twelve years since our first garden. Lessons are learned slowly. If you see the same bulbs around your radishes. Don't pull them up. Sometimes the horror is too much to tell others about. I can still... I still remember what happened before but now I understand why so many stalls were only selling starts. Grow your gardens here at your own risk.
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Can you believe those feelings? Lovely dips of melancholy mixed with a pinch of bitter euphemism. Sometimes you have a stiff peak of humbug holding shape next to your happy future prospects. Something to look forward to always seems to help feed those tiny hints of crazed ignorance or burnt ego. Keep thinking about these. It can be dangerous to let them wander about up there.
This bowling alley bathroom smells like candy! Kinda want to lick the floor. Probably best not to since the meth is probably all gone and smoked by someone else. 'Just the air' I say to myself. 'Just in and out'. Hallelujah