Whenever the atmospheric pressure is this serene, all of her neurons collide and she begins touch-typing like a lunatic. Her erraticism surpasses the epitome of lunacy, in fact. She uses extravagant adjectives and lucrative adverbs to equalize her musings but those extravagant adjectives and lucrative adverbs cannot be tantamount to her self-declared schizophrenia. Her words are fumbling like molecules in a gaseous state, trapped inside a trapezoid of illusions.
Her shank, her aching calves, still twinges from losing weight for the past twenty four hours. Dust, and hopefully not mites, are festering the five corners of her tainted room. Her stack of piracy are slowly leaning against her white wall, like a leaning tower of non-living things. Her clothesline is still color-unified, nonetheless. But her analog cameras are so stale, so deprived of slide films, and almost moth-eaten. She goes back to slumber.
She's thriving in a confined space. She's dreaming of a familiar face.
Author
Eяin Heяoin
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Suddenly Sullen
Whenever the atmospheric pressure is this serene, all of her neurons collide and she begins touch-typing like a lunatic. Her erraticism surpasses the epitome of lunacy, in fact. She uses extravagant adjectives and lucrative adverbs to equalize her musings but those extravagant adjectives and lucrative adverbs cannot be tantamount to her self-declared schizophrenia. Her words are fumbling like molecules in a gaseous state, trapped inside a trapezoid of illusions.
Her shank, her aching calves, still twinges from losing weight for the past twenty four hours. Dust, and hopefully not mites, are festering the five corners of her tainted room. Her stack of piracy are slowly leaning against her white wall, like a leaning tower of non-living things. Her clothesline is still color-unified, nonetheless. But her analog cameras are so stale, so deprived of slide films, and almost moth-eaten. She goes back to slumber.
She's thriving in a confined space. She's dreaming of a familiar face.
Her shank, her aching calves, still twinges from losing weight for the past twenty four hours. Dust, and hopefully not mites, are festering the five corners of her tainted room. Her stack of piracy are slowly leaning against her white wall, like a leaning tower of non-living things. Her clothesline is still color-unified, nonetheless. But her analog cameras are so stale, so deprived of slide films, and almost moth-eaten. She goes back to slumber.
She's thriving in a confined space. She's dreaming of a familiar face.
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Born in the mid-80s, Erin Herøin is a marveller of non-sequitur writing, cinematic films, & analogue photography.
Before, she used to be an aspiring physician; now, she is a newbie bassist who has 5.50/5.00 eyes & black tattoos on her right arm.
She's the former chief editor of Lomography's international magazine, the founder of Whilst We Wait, & the author of Paranoirexia.
Today, she curates and directs Parallel Planets, an online publication on creatives worldwide.
She dwells in the Eastern border of Manila with her pet pussies.
Before, she used to be an aspiring physician; now, she is a newbie bassist who has 5.50/5.00 eyes & black tattoos on her right arm.
She's the former chief editor of Lomography's international magazine, the founder of Whilst We Wait, & the author of Paranoirexia.
Today, she curates and directs Parallel Planets, an online publication on creatives worldwide.
She dwells in the Eastern border of Manila with her pet pussies.
