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We had been receiving phone calls in the small hours of the morning, my caregivers reporting each time an inability to discern any presence on the line.
I can’t stress enough the psychological effect of having the words you’ve written bound in your own skin. In having words torn from your mind…
we find ourselves lost in the experience of being the watcher whose subject is unaware of his gaze, which forms the undoing of rational thought, confronted with all the beauty and terror of the other in its natural state.
When I destroy a photograph of someone I feel so fucking good. I want to end everyone’s memories of people, I want to stop people three or four generations down from knowing who anyone was or what they did.
To be a noise producer (“musician” or “artist” seems less than universally appropriate for practitioners of the discipline; a more neutral term is necessary) is, inherently, to be a pervert. It’s always deviant behavior, always against the grain. But there’s levels to it.
the road from philadelphia to tunhannock erupts into a tableau of arborescent violence; hosts of dryads weaving reds, oranges and yellows, ghost girls reaching out through limbs to arms to branches to fingers to leaves.
A person and their pet effigy attempt to pass the time while trapped in a strange mansion.
The Tyrant Queen of Iron City presents us with a bouquet of petty grievances.
The ritual sacrifice of three men at the hands of three inverse-graces.
A short comic about a sensitive, vulnerable boy—diagnosed and manipulated by a mysterious psychiatric professional.
The freaked-out, bored, alienated observations of the Beautiful Boy looking out on his suburban purgatory.
An effeminate man invites a beautiful young skinhead into his home. Masculinity, the other, limit experience.
An imminently depressing, short, contemplative piece of empty, alien-world-wandering SF.
An attempt to locate a distinctly feminine “non-tyranical monstrosity” in Ted K’s life and work