Qui plume a, guerre a.
San Francisco dreams at twilight. Jumping over bridges to fly across the sea. Riding bikes down long and winding lanes, at once straight and three dimensionally beautiful simultaneously. Dreams in color - or in black and white, in a city bathed in oranges, reds, purples, whichever color(s) you might imagine. It is a city of desire, of adultery. It cheats its own form, mimics itself and draws you in through mere thought. The city does not beg adoration of you - it creates it before you arrive. And when the sun casts that glow across the dark streets, when the hills cast shadows upon each other, when you cast yourself into the beauty of such a place - then you can understand violent lust. Not only do you thirst for human interaction (in whatever way you might understand that), but you crave the city itself as if you do not simply partake. In this way, you become a part of the view. But only at twilight will these dreams take form.
26 April 2012 · Comments
10 January 2012 · Comments
Got this Sterling Smith-Corona manual typewriter and an acoustic bass guitar. Best birthday ever!
30 October 2011 · Comments
So I received this in the mail the other day from my good friend and poet, Courtney Fisher, The mix features Hall & Oates, Westlife, AC/DC and Mike Blair & The Stonewalls. Made my freaking week!
30 September 2011 · Comments
Seurat’s still-life, pointillism, a bunch of tiny pieces coming together to make a complete work, the idea of detailing this seemingly ordinary day in the hope that it might reveal some greater truth about ourselves, compliments so perfectly the concept behind The Office. Brilliant, just brilliant.
26 September 2011 · Comments
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Always talk about the hot chicks...
At the Saatchi Gallery, London.
Breakthrough…
AHHHHHHHHHHHHH I literally screamed out loud at...