Slum

The body is not an aesthetic object, it's a living participant

The mind needs silence the way a camera needs darkness to develop an image

part-time artist, full-time FREAK

"This is what I wanted," you'd think. "Not the river, not the city - just her leading, me staying close enough to catch the world the way she does."

When the asphalt cracked beneath your tires you'd glance up at the planes banking overhead, then back at her - her hair shifting with the wind, the way she leaned slightly forward on her handlebars like she were pulling the morning towards her.

I let myself care because the alternative is a kind of death I've already tried

Is breaking into a locksmith shop supporting local business?

I was on a date and the guy asked me what my favorite club was. I said chicken and aioli.

So you think lobsters get nervous whenever they hear someone crack their knuckles?

The nights are gone, the seas are steam, the fields are ash—and yet, in this final hour, all is clothed in beauty. Even ruin is gilded. Even absence glows in a silence deeper than mourning.

A fiery god behind smoke, swelled upon the horizon, unhurried and complete, the world seemed not destroyed but transfigured. For this was no ending, but a benediction: a red giant's hymn, sung over the bones of the earth, turning all things to gold one last time

The Sun, in the zenith of its final bloom, had ceased to be a star and become instead a great presence, vast and solemn, its effulgence both terrible and tender

The air trembled with heat, yet the silence was unbroken, save for the faint stir of stone softening beneath light. The heavens were no longer blue but washed in a deep and ceaseless crimson, a color that seemed less like fire than memory—an old warmth stretched to the edge of time

In 500 years maybe the revival of Helvetica as a sacred “ancient script,” stylizing our current digital fonts as artifact

rain on the pavement smelled like copper and lilacs

metallic bite, soft bloom—something sharp and something sweet, the way you already hold me

If I could send a letter to my ancestors: I survived, as you did. I speak what you couldn’t. May my voice honor your silence, and may my life carry the strength you passed to me.

And now you’re here, which is better than anything I had planned

Just 4 fun (majin aya brea)

In 1994, for his private work, my Father had taken portraits of ship carpenters who built a large antique-style wooden ship, the San Juan Bautista.

These were washed white, the images disappearing. These scars are similar to my memories, which I am slowly losing. All of these photos were taken by my father. My memories came rushing back, even if parts of the images are lost. They showed an evidence of our history: we have lived here.

I found my father’s large-format camera, some lenses, a strobe light, and his tripod scattered around our house. These became symbolic items representing what the photo studio used to be. When I found them, I felt my parents wanted to remind us, "We were here!"

by Mayumi Suzuki

The scars on the recovered snapshots sometimes looked like the peninsula on a map.

#FOTM kepler. an old favorite. many weights. "a hint of oldstyle proportion and calligraphic detailing that lends it warmth and energy"

The brain turns memory into story. Story into longing. And longing has a way of distilling things down to their most potent form.

Presence lets you relax into love. Absence sharpens it.

My grief is devotion with no place to land

All faithfully sealed and hidden away, all waiting for the rush of this earth through space and the resurgence of the sun

I'll be here. Sleep like something worth returning to

Taking notes
Jelling
Insular
Interlace