Thoughts and things of such extremes trigger herself to invent such marvellous drafts of lexicon and imagery, combined. Two of the most extreme themes are, firstly, ardour and the latter which comes to mind is, more or less, rage. She loves a solitary human being in the world, other than the Supreme One, of course. Nevertheless, she innately and unavoidably abhors the filthiness of the rest of human kind. Including her own venial sins, including her own worldly lust.
Half of her brain is suffocated with hatred. She wants to revert life to its most serene prologue, like being afloat in a mother's womb. A clean slate is what she aims for. But all has taken place and time travel is only existent in books and in minds. There's no space for taking back the unmentioned sins. Everything is here and now. She can only take the barrels off the side of her head. And then retreat, without choking - and without any speck of tears.
Constantly panicking, the axons in her cranium. Why must she be bothered by a single fleck of this other human being who, like all other dirty souls that presently walks the Earth, also thrives amongst the deadened livings? That she, who has a hollow mind and even a hollower soul, must remain in her self-produced forgery. That she, who is all-hollow, shall dwell in her lies and her scum and her husband's corpse - the both of them still unaware of their rotten misery.
Three paragraphs have been frittered away into our protagonist's loony bin. And it does her soul well. For some of the most extreme thoughts and things can only be forgiven upon immortalizing her memories into her own loop of words. And sometimes, most of those extremes are even forgotten.
Anew. Unafraid. This is your end.
Author
Eяin Heяoin
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Despise, Demise
Thoughts and things of such extremes trigger herself to invent such marvellous drafts of lexicon and imagery, combined. Two of the most extreme themes are, firstly, ardour and the latter which comes to mind is, more or less, rage. She loves a solitary human being in the world, other than the Supreme One, of course. Nevertheless, she innately and unavoidably abhors the filthiness of the rest of human kind. Including her own venial sins, including her own worldly lust.
Half of her brain is suffocated with hatred. She wants to revert life to its most serene prologue, like being afloat in a mother's womb. A clean slate is what she aims for. But all has taken place and time travel is only existent in books and in minds. There's no space for taking back the unmentioned sins. Everything is here and now. She can only take the barrels off the side of her head. And then retreat, without choking - and without any speck of tears.
Constantly panicking, the axons in her cranium. Why must she be bothered by a single fleck of this other human being who, like all other dirty souls that presently walks the Earth, also thrives amongst the deadened livings? That she, who has a hollow mind and even a hollower soul, must remain in her self-produced forgery. That she, who is all-hollow, shall dwell in her lies and her scum and her husband's corpse - the both of them still unaware of their rotten misery.
Three paragraphs have been frittered away into our protagonist's loony bin. And it does her soul well. For some of the most extreme thoughts and things can only be forgiven upon immortalizing her memories into her own loop of words. And sometimes, most of those extremes are even forgotten.
Anew. Unafraid. This is your end.
Half of her brain is suffocated with hatred. She wants to revert life to its most serene prologue, like being afloat in a mother's womb. A clean slate is what she aims for. But all has taken place and time travel is only existent in books and in minds. There's no space for taking back the unmentioned sins. Everything is here and now. She can only take the barrels off the side of her head. And then retreat, without choking - and without any speck of tears.
Constantly panicking, the axons in her cranium. Why must she be bothered by a single fleck of this other human being who, like all other dirty souls that presently walks the Earth, also thrives amongst the deadened livings? That she, who has a hollow mind and even a hollower soul, must remain in her self-produced forgery. That she, who is all-hollow, shall dwell in her lies and her scum and her husband's corpse - the both of them still unaware of their rotten misery.
Three paragraphs have been frittered away into our protagonist's loony bin. And it does her soul well. For some of the most extreme thoughts and things can only be forgiven upon immortalizing her memories into her own loop of words. And sometimes, most of those extremes are even forgotten.
Anew. Unafraid. This is your end.
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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.
