By: Grace Crouthamel A warm room somewhere, chapped lips and the taste of cigarettes still on my breath. A sliver of my being, callous but coarse – what little is left. I can offer you a fashionable loneliness the last laughs of a dying star a billion miles away, a few centimeters between a raindrop…Continue Reading But What Can I Offer You?
By: Sydney Vincent Death has pretty eyes, eyes that glisten when the sun hits them just right, like a glass green bottle on the eastern windowsill of your gram’s house in the morning wake of the sky. They are those eyes that look up at a glance to catch your gaze from a few tables away in that lonely diner on the corner of your…Continue Reading Death has pretty eyes
By: Jack Snyder Ignore the smog. You have to use your imagination to see here. Peel the skyline like an orange, notice how everything glimmers with just the right light from far enough away. I think that’s why we call it “Tinseltown”, with so much wave and uncertainty, so much jazz and hip hop, so…Continue Reading another reflection in another pair of eyes