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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.
An effeminate man invites a beautiful young skinhead into his home. Masculinity, the other, limit experience.
The freaked-out, bored, alienated observations of the Beautiful Boy looking out on his suburban purgatory.
A short comic about a sensitive, vulnerable boy—diagnosed and manipulated by a mysterious psychiatric professional.
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