A man hovers over lovers like a sightless ghost. He’s the subject of a love song, remodelled inside bodies, drowsy from suicide. He questions pleasured victims in a room full of sex. He confuses honesty with cum. His thoughts are connubial while he pummels marrow. He chokes, disengaged from seizures, a bony piston. Internal organs oppose him; he’s gripped. This is bedchamber rehab, and his tongue...
He leaves the room unnoticed, where echoes of unfiltered sobs mark a return to form. He’s on the verge of slitting his way to a breakthrough, but he’s defended by the brotherhood of the emotionally stunted. A percussion of liquor begins to tint space, blackening his sense of time. He straightens his back to forge celebration, leaving a wreckage of questions behind. To those who are able, he...
ssemblage: Otherworld →
This fucking guy is onto something. ssemblage: In a dream, you and I drifted through an immense black hole, lost to the Super-Sargasso Sea,particles drifting endlessly unable to interact. [time is a nomad traveling spatial planes, a brontosaurus* navigating placid water, rearing her head backward or forward [*the brontosaurus is the…
Anonymous asked: how involved are you in filmmaking?