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Sunday, 27 July 2014

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Eric LaRocca, Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke

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Visual Massage.

Light shines, shadow shapes.

HQ.

My sites: Tumblr - Giphy - Twitter - Makersplace

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*kisses you over the duct tape*

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[...] people were so ridiculous with their illusions, carrying their fool's caps unawares, thinking their own lies opaque while everybody else's were transparent, making themselves exceptions to everything, as if when all the world looked yellow under a lamp they alone were rosy.

Middlemarch - George Eliot

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Susan Sontag, The Benefactor

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The Agonist, Shastra Deo

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Nobody is everybody.

Nowhere is everywhere.

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He was as tall as he was tall, and his eyes were the color they were. To describe his hair one would say that he had some. His face had all the features you'd expect, and none of the ones you wouldn't. "There he is," people would often say of him, but only when he was there. And they were right.

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Be the Glitch

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𝟼𝟼. sender locks the receiver in the attic, promising it's for their own good.

the ghost face's senses are sharp, wolflike, in the darkness. in the groggy haze of the dim light filtering through the cracks in the paneled walls. his brows furrow. his breathing becomes wet and slightly shallow inside his mask, as his wrists twist, struggling against the wooden pole that he feels bound to.

from the stairway, danny hears the creaking of @mrgoatman's footsteps. senses the stench of blood and death, the red soaked into the survivor's clothes.

"well," he feels his throat tighten, and then, relaxes. unimpressed. venom in his breath. "isn't this just nice."