my #mcm is one of the best dead guys I know. #vscocam (at Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts)
he’s just having the best time. #vscocam (at New Orleans)
~ominous~ (at St. Anna’s Episcopal Church)
“habitually self congratulatory and
romanticized versions of everything
the language of
pulling the metaphorical wool
critiques and authenticity
sterilizing tragedy with conversation of any sort
relief did not fare so well
straddling the line between
epicurean and austere - an expanse of breath
sighs & whispers
tiny time keepers
profane human existence
[esotericism, pseudepigrapha, querency]
orchestration, systems & representations, delayed pleasure
glorifying arrogance and growing sores
another description is of
immaculate replies, my unreliable narrators
lamps tight shade glued to
making decisions in situations where
you’d rather not
nevermind the fact that
your past is coming back but
we went back
we realized it was all lost then, too
he said, “you just won’t let this go.” #vscocam
art market. #vscocam (at Frenchmen Street)
shut the fuck up,” she shouted.
now, I am loud. I am loud and I haven’t decided if I am sorry about it or not, but I’ll tell you, when I say that this girl shouted, it means I know. i mean, what I’m trying to say is, she had pipes.
“come here and make up your mind,” I said to her.
we were at that club in the apartment building where you had to know the doorman and she was being dramatic again, pretending that she was numb.
“fine we aren’t doing emotion anymore. it’s fine,” I said.
she knew I was ridiculing her, I was barely bothering to conceal anything anymore. I was so many different people lately, I was doing virtue ethics and its weird and maybe I should be a little more worried than I am but really every new state feels like it’s been there all along and it’s only in times like these when I can kind of see them all spread out together in front of me.
“I don’t fuck on the first date,” I told her again.
I launched towards her suddenly, took a roll of tape out of the bag hanging from her chair.
“this is your soul,” I said.
“every time you have sex with someone, a little bit of that person stays stuck to you, like this - ” I stick the tape on my arm and remove it, tiny brown cells and invisible bits some dead and some alive creating patterns that allowed me to prove my point.
the problem is, eventually you run out of clean tape, and your soul is covered in the cells of everyone else and then you are left soulless and alone and 70 without any teeth or anyone to help you put on your pants to take you to the bathroom, like that person over there. I pointed in the direction of laura, who was in fact, quite the opposite of 70, rather, closer to 7 than to 70 but dying all the same; you could see it in her elbows her knees all of her joints rotted and black whispers. we stopped fussing over her a long time ago when she gave her last piece of soul tape to a guy who stopped returning her calls after a few days. since then, she’d only been able to have nightmares and looked forlorn often.
we sat in the club, her starting to dance sometimes when other girls would come up to us. she only wanted to leave so that she didn’t have to look at laura but I wouldn’t let her, kept us cemented to this spot. she’d taken a piece of laura’s soul tape a few months before, second to last and reckless, drunken. she’d thought little of it at the time but now she felt shame spread through her like a port-wine stain. laura, to her credit, didn’t blame her at all and truth be told, it was really the last one that did it, taking up the most and longest pieces of space, but still.
shut the fuck up,” she said, whispering this time.