I’ve seen the light. The rain is dripping and clocks don’t stop. This timeless sea of my bed, so warm and deep, is draining into a spiraling spout. My hands are damp, cold, hot and prickly, the fluids seep the sea from me. The blankets cover, warm and buzzing, layer upon...
so that I could not make out the features, but there was somethingunnatural41andinhuman42about the face. That was the impression that I had, and I moved quickly forwards to get a nearer view of the person who was watching me.
When I awoke the next morning, it felt as though a stone lay across my chest; heavy enough to shorten my breath, but not to suffocate me entirely, as I’d silently hoped. Up and down, up and down: it rose and fell rhythmically, as anger and fear and uncertainty boxed my heart. I...
not even references in the wider Shroud literature (bar Dan Porter’s site, this posting in particular used to temporarily reopen his site after a 3 year shutdown)), why there was no entry of this site or its central idea on
As Gauguin’s star rose, Vincent’s spirits plunged. He was undergoing a crisis of confidence in his work. The paintings from earlier in the year consisted almost entirely of visual responses to what he had seen in front of him. But Gauguin’s arrival had temporarily persuaded Vincent that ...
I cried. On October 8, I rose from 5 hours of half sleep, half house-shattering nightmares and got in a truck that hauled in its wake the contents of my year’s work and life savings. I cried. I watched my house leave its little nesting spot and saw it go down every street, ...
making it all happy and poppy but still an undeniable beast. The vocals recall Rose Melberg dipped in reverb and left to dry in the summer sun, and these four songs skip merrily down the lane, “Seconds” in particular being something I’d expect to find wrapped up in one of Tony Moli...