It's a quarter towards four in the morn and still her brain is exuding with her self-diagnosed psycho-neurotic ideas. She reaches for the box of menthol cigs, puts out a stick, and salivates like a loon. Where is the fucking lighter? Oh yes, he claimed it as his and the firestarter is, nevertheless, in his pockets. And it's all fine. She keeps back the fag and chugs down her very own starchy enzymes.
Peanut butter cups of chocolate can pose as a fix: to rescue her from a deteriorating circadian clock. Her tresses lengthen and they abseil nightly onto her air-filled slumber bed. Her nails are lengthened like her mother's. And are sullenly deprived of their usual crimson polish. Underneath are canailles of tedium and of some lechery.
Clock-ticking, inaudible. Gut-wrenching, implausible. It's now five past four in the morn. And all she can hear is whirring. She suddenly longs for her feline's purring. And her lover's nuzzling. Never mind the sheep and other bollocks, her mental forgeries shall lull her to slumber 'til the morning after.
Eight hours from now. Or even twelve hereafter.
Author
Eяin Heяoin
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Chronic, Wakeful
It's a quarter towards four in the morn and still her brain is exuding with her self-diagnosed psycho-neurotic ideas. She reaches for the box of menthol cigs, puts out a stick, and salivates like a loon. Where is the fucking lighter? Oh yes, he claimed it as his and the firestarter is, nevertheless, in his pockets. And it's all fine. She keeps back the fag and chugs down her very own starchy enzymes.
Peanut butter cups of chocolate can pose as a fix: to rescue her from a deteriorating circadian clock. Her tresses lengthen and they abseil nightly onto her air-filled slumber bed. Her nails are lengthened like her mother's. And are sullenly deprived of their usual crimson polish. Underneath are canailles of tedium and of some lechery.
Clock-ticking, inaudible. Gut-wrenching, implausible. It's now five past four in the morn. And all she can hear is whirring. She suddenly longs for her feline's purring. And her lover's nuzzling. Never mind the sheep and other bollocks, her mental forgeries shall lull her to slumber 'til the morning after.
Eight hours from now. Or even twelve hereafter.
Peanut butter cups of chocolate can pose as a fix: to rescue her from a deteriorating circadian clock. Her tresses lengthen and they abseil nightly onto her air-filled slumber bed. Her nails are lengthened like her mother's. And are sullenly deprived of their usual crimson polish. Underneath are canailles of tedium and of some lechery.
Clock-ticking, inaudible. Gut-wrenching, implausible. It's now five past four in the morn. And all she can hear is whirring. She suddenly longs for her feline's purring. And her lover's nuzzling. Never mind the sheep and other bollocks, her mental forgeries shall lull her to slumber 'til the morning after.
Eight hours from now. Or even twelve hereafter.
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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.
