

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 fragmented tale of a teenager tormented by receiving a cursed image in their DMs.
Grief as a conduit for passage beyond the veil, always returning us to life.
Two collections of poetry on grief.
An envelope opened, photos scattered on the table—all that remains of a prior life.
The poetic conjuring of a backwoods haruspex guiding us into the charged experience of encounters with hanging animal corpses, forbidding landmarks, and crumbling ruins deep in the forest.
A notebook left on a bedroom floor, mechanically pinched up and deposited in a numbered plastic baggie by a uniformed man.
[Man]will know his fault by the sun which stands in fiery witness and the wind which breathes its judgement in the final silence of the world.
Drawings of tender, violent, chivalric male intimacy.
An anthropomorphic swan who dreams of flight finds a sequestered community of “adult drawers” who attempt to help her realize her dream.