2/5 Stars. Shit apartment. Shit maintenance. Stay away, seriously.
This place sucks.

I think it’s something in the water. Makes you heavy and kind of sick, I use a water purifier, it still tastes bad, but it’s hard to pick apart from the air and the dust and what feels like mold between the splitting cracks in the corner of the closet. The ceiling bubbles into pools, bending out, it’s strangely gross like wounds with puss that have no choice but to leak because the water does not stop coming. It comes through the top floor like a faucet; they sweep the water out the door with a broom.

It leaks in through the windows and when you wring out the rags it’s muddy and cloudy: the sky from above, now in your bucket. It won’t happen again, they said they cleaned out the gutters.

It’s hard to take a shower, stand out of the way to the side to where you can feel the mildew and the grime, but the water is too hot and the faucet doesn’t change. Shut off the hot water, there are three knobs and that seems a little excessive for a goddamn shower, but it still comes through, until–very suddenly–it is too cold. It’s a perfect excuse. But it doesn’t make it any easier to get the dirt off, smoke coat on your skin. They smoke next door and it comes through the vent and gets into your clothes.

There is a lamp in the bathroom because the light went out a long time ago.

I call it home;

sometimes I’m afraid to leave.

Collecting things in boxes, and it’s exciting and nice because you’re tired of the dust, there is so much on the walls. Wipe things down once but run your hand over you can still feel something there, wipe things down twice and eventually you give up.

It came unfurnished; we strip home down and pack it up, ship it out. Clean it for a deposit–put it back to its initial condition, remove all evidence, all trace that you were once here and you once called it home even though it smelled like rotten eggs because it’s easier to say let’s go home than let’s go back to the apartment. The first unit I was misplaced in had been rebuilt; a car drove into it.

They say home is where the heart is. All that smoke, spilled liquor, a shot of fireball after a party I was there for five minutes so I took a cup to-go, a momentary lapse of judgment leaving shaken cider on the wall like there was a reason to celebrate when there was no fucking reason to celebrate and now someone will try to clean the residue and maybe they could smell it–I can’t–I hope they can’t so they don’t misinterpret the situation say it was a happy thing; it was an angry thing.

We all say we agree to pretend I never touched this place, because they do not want to say this unit comes furnished with slivers of human smeared splattered pinned scratched on the walls a grime you will never clean off the counters, tiny bits of powder in the space between the stove and counter. And the fridge, it was new, there was no one else in there but now there has been.

You can take fruit out of the fridge when you smell it’s gone bad, but you can still smell it, yes you have the ghost of a hundred grapes that died of neglect haunting your food now. There were worms in there too, once.

How ugly the mismatched red paint looks on the accent wall. They pretended it would dry and that we wouldn’t notice soon, one of the few things I liked was the red wall, and fake wood floor.

When it rains it gets humid and that curls hung papers. It soaked in, so it probably is in the walls too–it flooded, dripping through the ceiling once, after all. I hid here. My bed is against the wall and that is comforting because there’s one side I don’t have to watch and I can feel small and nothing just an observer. People say sometimes I want to crawl under a rock, but that would be impractical because it’s not often you find rocks large enough to crawl under that you can crawl under unless you also have a shovel and that is usually not the case; I want to crawl into the wall, it flooded, dripping through the ceiling once, after all. Whenever it’s time to move it’s hard to shake the feeling that what if I left something behind.

How many people shut the door and hid in this bedroom too, acting like they were alone?



When they ask why I’m not renewing my lease I should just recite this to management. This is the most melodramatic review of an apartment complex that I never imagined I would be writing.

Rat House, Crawlspace.

It is an impossible situation. This rat in his cage that you built will go looking through the slithers of the mirror, he looks right through the cracks, thinking: sorry, that he had seen his eyes even though it was through his own (but, not quite glass).

As lost as you are blind, see, you still have the maximum openness. Exit is everywhere. Yet you’ll find another, some openings, shy from the sky, in the house that aren’t a door, an origin that marks the point of no return.
Where, where to start?
You’ll find yourself in a slow crawl through a closing door. Pointlessly, you will try to calculate what we will and will not find, reaching for some light to fill your reflection. You hope to guide your sorry way, like rotting meat outstretched in loveliness and beauty, before this seat of shame. You’re afraid to see the same walls but you crawl backwards. Maybe if you had more time . . . You come back around, sinking deeper where the ground comes up slightly and you’re earthbound now to whatever comes down beneath you.
What if everything around you is a single thin straight line that you might never reach.
Your body pulls you right back to a place you once knew. You can see this is not where it belongs.
Exit is everywhere.

Would you stay at all if you knew your devils and gods loved a liar?
But this is your only face, desperate to control all and everything, incapable of fucking normal emotions.

Better not look him too closely in the eye because he has no fear of being caught. And yes, this too has been tested.

Well, it’s still no excuse just to keep the lights off.



This is a collage of some songs and literature. (VNV Nation, Acretongue, Nine Inch Nails, Coil, E.B. White, Front Line Assembly, Dead When I found Her, Tool, Mark Danielewski, Angelspit.)

I dedicate this to the year of my lifespan that calculus II has mercilessly claimed this past summer.

I’ve been thinking about William S. Burroughs a lot; I recently finished Naked Lunch. It’s been great to disconnect from social media and instead surround myself with media that makes me excited and makes me think, as much as I love memes. It’s weird to find out many of my inspirational artists knew each other and collaborated, or were pointedly inspired, but also not really that surprising. I’d like to join in this society, where can I find the application forms?

FIAFD Excerpt / out of word

Caius stared at him blankly, something heavy behind it; he looked exhausted. Maybe it shouldn’t have been a big deal. Maybe it just shouldn’t have been. Shit. But Caius was visibly still thinking.

Out of place. Out of word.

Caius was probably just half too confused to even process it. It sounded weird when he said it, only in context. And now it was painfully silent, and the night buzzed out tired behind his brain. Maybe there was no baseline; where was he even trying? Fatal error. He had talked too much. Caius was still quiet.

“okay.” It was incredibly quiet. He didn’t flinch away from his hand that time, so he set his palm against his shoulder. It really didn’t help anything.

“I’m sure you have a thousand other things to worry about instead. So don’t worry about it.”

Caius still didn’t move, only movement of trying to be still.


He bit his lip. Always should have thought it better through. Typical. Second best, he tried to curl up against Caius’s back, get him to stop being still, but he was always persistent, and that was exhausting. But some seconds and he made a weird sound so that he was actually at a loss, and Caius turned around, curled himself up, hid his face behind his hair and into the pillow.

Tentative, he pulled him back in, and Caius half-heartedly let him.


I particularly like this piece because I actually don’t remember what Julius said right before this takes place. Small excerpt from an upcoming project, Flesh is a Fever Dream.


Art + Some Blogging

Some recent digital art . . .




Life has been hectic this year, but with an extra little oomph, things should finally be going much better. So here is a bloggish ramble.

In the past year and a half, I’ve found more of a direction for myself, developed a better understanding of what I need to do to stay on track. Which also includes a better understanding of what sort of content I want to create, what I want to do with that content, why I want to share it, and how I’m going to share it.

I’ve been focusing more on drawing. Anatomy, proportions, posing, all that tedious hell. It’s frustrating. I’m happy, though, and it finally feels like I’m actually improving. So I hope to reach a point where I’m actually drawing more stuff that isn’t pages upon pages of gestures.

I haven’t written anything significant for a few months (and in that time I’ve realized Burn-In needs some major revisions, I’m glad I haven’t released much), and I’m trying to detach myself from the feeling that I need to know what to do with a piece of writing–stand alone story, zine piece, episodic novel?–and just write. I guess I have a fear of commitment and a fear of not following through. All I need to do is remember why I write in the first place. I like it. And that’s that.

Social media is giving me a headache. It’s so easy to be drawn to it and its gratification. (It’s designed to be addicting. Alas–I’m too weak to resist temptation.) But feels hollow in the end, just in it for the numbers.
So I’m trying to remove myself from it again and dissociate from the gratification of numbers.

I’m staying active on Twitter, DeviantArt (at least for the time being–it’s the only place my art actually gets noticed lmao), and teeter-tottering on whether to keep Instagram. It’s so full of people who just want you to follow them back that I don’t know if sifting through that is worth it. It makes me feel as though no one has a genuine interest in my art. But at the same time it seems to work out incredibly well for a lot of artists.

As a digital artist it’s almost innate to want a following, but I’ve realized what I truly want is to network with people who share similar interests, or are interested in accompanying me on the exploration I would like my content to be. This video about the new Twin Peaks helped me realize how much I don’t want to cater to a wide audience, and how even the eclectic and unconventional can be widely successful.

There are a few pieces of media (Naked Lunch, Blade Runner, Myst, Fahrenheit 451, Brazil (1985), House of Leaves, Nine Inch Nails, Deus Ex, Tool, to name a few) that have dramatically impacted my psyche, and how I approach my own art. (I hope to create work that is equally as psychological. As of now it feels as though I’m stuck in a boring skill-building phase. Boo. ) That’s the reason I want to share my art. Just in case something I create can have that sort of impact, however few or many people it is. And I hope I can have an active exchange of thought and content with any audience I might form.

Instagram artist with 150k followers? Eh. I’d rather be a cult classic.

I must not speak or water will fill my lungs.

The looks are empty.

And the sea is very far away from the shore.

They say we know more about space than
the depths of the ocean

quiet water lapping water
cold dark pressure
raining little bits of
bathypelagic detritus ash

sunless thermal vent life
makes us rethink the order of everything.

What I found there wasn’t what I was
expecting or what I
wanted like nothing I
had ever known,

It’s been a long time since I read books
but it’s been longer since I heard a voice

that sounded human.

I know more about space
than I do the depth


I might be so much bigger than hydrothermal vents–
did they change
what we know? no.

Extremophile, archaea.

Read me my genome.

You’ve never seen me before.


How far it goes.