The night is old and she tosses and turns with a book in one hand. She's been reading the metamorphosis of Gregor Samsa for almost 2 months now; she is easily distracted. She suddenly thinks about getting her hair coloured with blue, suddenly ponders about what it's like to make angel wings in the snow, and suddenly wonders about how his arms were perfectly built to match hers -- these, combined, are proofs of how easily distracted she is.
Page 28, feels like a million years ago. She shifts her thoughts into her favourite scenes with him, like spontaneous trips involving train stations. She laughs and he captures this sight in film. It is apparent, he can't get enough of her. Luckily, the universe conspires with their story and she adores him in return.
Page 28 and a half, another tossing and turning and smiling caused by some unknown force. Then, her eyes twitch. Her hair remains jet black and snow is in the other side of the globe but she lays still... and waits still.
She is dreaming awake.
Author
Eяin Heяoin
She cringes at the sight of black ants, rowdy while devouring a lifeless flesh of their next of kin. Instead, she forces herself to look at the mirror and her eyes radiomatically wanders amidst the flaws and flecks of her face. Her forehead is wide; her cheekbones are not that prominent. Not a trace of divinity: she is even plainer than Jane. She continually wonders, at the same time wanders, why, of all adjectives, sophisticated is bound to be her middle name.
Wearing only panties, she scribbles innumerable phrases, phrases which when she says aloud, the loose connection in between her words create a more intricate and sullen weave of imagination and emotion. As usual, her mind is in erratum and eventually, no one could convey what she really means but: "Come her way, come what may!"
She writes about her thoughts but she almost never speaks about them. Her mind is in a constant battle. Like when a catlady decides which deathly color should her curtains be: violet or mauve. Even with the most gruesome things, she is easily fascinated. Every word is a dreamy grim. And every punctuation is a grimy dream.
Sentences with incomplete thought -
Stories with alternate endings -
Next parchment, please.
Wearing only panties, she scribbles innumerable phrases, phrases which when she says aloud, the loose connection in between her words create a more intricate and sullen weave of imagination and emotion. As usual, her mind is in erratum and eventually, no one could convey what she really means but: "Come her way, come what may!"
She writes about her thoughts but she almost never speaks about them. Her mind is in a constant battle. Like when a catlady decides which deathly color should her curtains be: violet or mauve. Even with the most gruesome things, she is easily fascinated. Every word is a dreamy grim. And every punctuation is a grimy dream.
Sentences with incomplete thought -
Stories with alternate endings -
Next parchment, please.
Author
Eяin Heяoin
Humidity strangles her whilst she struts with a corduroy pleated skirt which she has been solemnly wearing for the last six years. Still suits her, gluteal muscles were still the same. Lipsticks and guns on each side of her rubber sneaks: its black felt decorated with her pussy cat's strings of fur. She missed the outside world. Strangers examine her from legs to eyes and she is fascinated. Her nails of pallor are devoid of colour and her asymmetrical tresses makes her look swell. Happiness is up and ahead. She can smell it like a chemical burn underneath her sweaty palm.
Sophistication rattles.
She eyes him in a distant but he can already feel her eyes piercing through his. Inside, he is dancing. Her loveliness clouds his mind and instead of brushing his lips against her silken cheek, he holds her right hand. Her beaded ring was too enormous for her candle-shaped fingers but he can only feel her radiating pulse connecting right through his veins. It was like an electric clash but the feeling was not brand new. It's like an out-of-body experience every time he sees her: ravishing, all worthy of his glances, and even worthy of everyone's stares.
Sublimation commences.
Sophistication rattles.
She eyes him in a distant but he can already feel her eyes piercing through his. Inside, he is dancing. Her loveliness clouds his mind and instead of brushing his lips against her silken cheek, he holds her right hand. Her beaded ring was too enormous for her candle-shaped fingers but he can only feel her radiating pulse connecting right through his veins. It was like an electric clash but the feeling was not brand new. It's like an out-of-body experience every time he sees her: ravishing, all worthy of his glances, and even worthy of everyone's stares.
Sublimation commences.
Author
Eяin Heяoin
She is a worthless piece of shit. The corpse-blue skies, as heavy as her heart, cries along with her tepid thoughts. She has forgotten the outside world, she's dying with her insides.
Emotions over emulsions.
Repulsions against reflections.
Vile and void.
She is worthless.
A piece of shit!
Emotions over emulsions.
Repulsions against reflections.
Vile and void.
She is worthless.
A piece of shit!
Author
Eяin Heяoin
She sleeps with one eye closed and she dreams with high-end notes.
She writes and almost never writhes.
She has nothing but erratic ideas but she is stirred to make them happen.
She likes doing things that render her sleepless.
She is not pessimistic, oh what a fruitful change!
Full of new hopes, she is!
Technicolour, monochrome, and even in between:
she is to learn new things.
But the ones, living or neuter,
which are of most importance to her -
remain the same and unhinged.
She is running out of words to chew
but not of stories to spew.
She is altered.
She will alter.
Author
Unknown
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Familiar Feelings
The night is old and she tosses and turns with a book in one hand. She's been reading the metamorphosis of Gregor Samsa for almost 2 months now; she is easily distracted. She suddenly thinks about getting her hair coloured with blue, suddenly ponders about what it's like to make angel wings in the snow, and suddenly wonders about how his arms were perfectly built to match hers -- these, combined, are proofs of how easily distracted she is.
Page 28, feels like a million years ago. She shifts her thoughts into her favourite scenes with him, like spontaneous trips involving train stations. She laughs and he captures this sight in film. It is apparent, he can't get enough of her. Luckily, the universe conspires with their story and she adores him in return.
Page 28 and a half, another tossing and turning and smiling caused by some unknown force. Then, her eyes twitch. Her hair remains jet black and snow is in the other side of the globe but she lays still... and waits still.
She is dreaming awake.
Page 28, feels like a million years ago. She shifts her thoughts into her favourite scenes with him, like spontaneous trips involving train stations. She laughs and he captures this sight in film. It is apparent, he can't get enough of her. Luckily, the universe conspires with their story and she adores him in return.
Page 28 and a half, another tossing and turning and smiling caused by some unknown force. Then, her eyes twitch. Her hair remains jet black and snow is in the other side of the globe but she lays still... and waits still.
She is dreaming awake.
Lackadaisical, et al.
She cringes at the sight of black ants, rowdy while devouring a lifeless flesh of their next of kin. Instead, she forces herself to look at the mirror and her eyes radiomatically wanders amidst the flaws and flecks of her face. Her forehead is wide; her cheekbones are not that prominent. Not a trace of divinity: she is even plainer than Jane. She continually wonders, at the same time wanders, why, of all adjectives, sophisticated is bound to be her middle name.
Wearing only panties, she scribbles innumerable phrases, phrases which when she says aloud, the loose connection in between her words create a more intricate and sullen weave of imagination and emotion. As usual, her mind is in erratum and eventually, no one could convey what she really means but: "Come her way, come what may!"
She writes about her thoughts but she almost never speaks about them. Her mind is in a constant battle. Like when a catlady decides which deathly color should her curtains be: violet or mauve. Even with the most gruesome things, she is easily fascinated. Every word is a dreamy grim. And every punctuation is a grimy dream.
Sentences with incomplete thought -
Stories with alternate endings -
Next parchment, please.
Wearing only panties, she scribbles innumerable phrases, phrases which when she says aloud, the loose connection in between her words create a more intricate and sullen weave of imagination and emotion. As usual, her mind is in erratum and eventually, no one could convey what she really means but: "Come her way, come what may!"
She writes about her thoughts but she almost never speaks about them. Her mind is in a constant battle. Like when a catlady decides which deathly color should her curtains be: violet or mauve. Even with the most gruesome things, she is easily fascinated. Every word is a dreamy grim. And every punctuation is a grimy dream.
Sentences with incomplete thought -
Stories with alternate endings -
Next parchment, please.
Gravitational Pull
Humidity strangles her whilst she struts with a corduroy pleated skirt which she has been solemnly wearing for the last six years. Still suits her, gluteal muscles were still the same. Lipsticks and guns on each side of her rubber sneaks: its black felt decorated with her pussy cat's strings of fur. She missed the outside world. Strangers examine her from legs to eyes and she is fascinated. Her nails of pallor are devoid of colour and her asymmetrical tresses makes her look swell. Happiness is up and ahead. She can smell it like a chemical burn underneath her sweaty palm.
Sophistication rattles.
She eyes him in a distant but he can already feel her eyes piercing through his. Inside, he is dancing. Her loveliness clouds his mind and instead of brushing his lips against her silken cheek, he holds her right hand. Her beaded ring was too enormous for her candle-shaped fingers but he can only feel her radiating pulse connecting right through his veins. It was like an electric clash but the feeling was not brand new. It's like an out-of-body experience every time he sees her: ravishing, all worthy of his glances, and even worthy of everyone's stares.
Sublimation commences.
Sophistication rattles.
She eyes him in a distant but he can already feel her eyes piercing through his. Inside, he is dancing. Her loveliness clouds his mind and instead of brushing his lips against her silken cheek, he holds her right hand. Her beaded ring was too enormous for her candle-shaped fingers but he can only feel her radiating pulse connecting right through his veins. It was like an electric clash but the feeling was not brand new. It's like an out-of-body experience every time he sees her: ravishing, all worthy of his glances, and even worthy of everyone's stares.
Sublimation commences.
Fecal Fairy
She is a worthless piece of shit. The corpse-blue skies, as heavy as her heart, cries along with her tepid thoughts. She has forgotten the outside world, she's dying with her insides.
Emotions over emulsions.
Repulsions against reflections.
Vile and void.
She is worthless.
A piece of shit!
Emotions over emulsions.
Repulsions against reflections.
Vile and void.
She is worthless.
A piece of shit!
Delightful Ever So
She sleeps with one eye closed and she dreams with high-end notes.
She writes and almost never writhes.
She has nothing but erratic ideas but she is stirred to make them happen.
She likes doing things that render her sleepless.
She is not pessimistic, oh what a fruitful change!
Full of new hopes, she is!
Technicolour, monochrome, and even in between:
she is to learn new things.
But the ones, living or neuter,
which are of most importance to her -
remain the same and unhinged.
She is running out of words to chew
but not of stories to spew.
She is altered.
She will alter.
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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.
