No title available
Keni
Claire Keane
RMH
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Sade Olutola
#extradirty
will byers stan first human second
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Three Goblin Art
pixel skylines
Cosmic Funnies
sheepfilms
dirt enthusiast
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
NASA
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Game of Thrones Daily
Mike Driver
YOU ARE THE REASON
seen from Netherlands
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Czechia
seen from Czechia
seen from United States
seen from Switzerland
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Australia
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from India
@exitasis-blog
IMAGINE THIS: a. ) Your skin is never truly yours; instead, it’s a carbon copy. b. ) Shower and scrub it, try to get rid off someone else’s smell. c. ) And you’re rubbed red, sinking in thoughts, remember: The person you’re imitating is dead, and watching.
fallacies.
jamaixvu:
[ text: taemin ] Are you free?
three little words lit up the phone screen. yutae’s fingers halted midway of ghosting over the jagged angry line on his face. without moving his hand, yutae glanced down. he took a closer look at the text sender. a small smile tugged at the corner of yutae’s lips. funny how out of all people, it would be taemin to contact him after yutae tried blowing his head off yesterday. yutae felt like the narrator of chuck palahniuk’s invisible monsters. except in his case, yutae’s shotgun blasted off jaw recreated itself. he was only allowed an hour or so at most of being without a jaw, whatever remnants of a tongue hanging out, his insides glistening exposed. since he loved fictional characters more than he’d ever love himself, yutae couldn’t stop staring at his own reflection in the mirror. he looked…lovely. yes. lovely. that was the word. by now, yutae’s face was fully reconstructed. there was only a half-smile curving from the right corner of his mouth to below his cheek bone. yutae hoped this scar wouldn’t fade. he never knew which scars stayed or disappeared. not wanting to keep taemin any longer, yutae tapped out a reply. he paused when taemin sent the location. with a chuckle, yutae deleted his original text and sent something new.
[ text: yutae ] i was going to reply with a something meta or existential (like how none of us are every truly free. is freedom even real? quote some camus. or nietzsche? yeah i think nietzsche.) [ text: yutae ] i’ll be there. see you soon.
the (pro/an?)tagonist of invisible monsters that lost her jaw wore silk veils. shrouded the horror with beautiful fabric. yutae settled for a simple black face mask. he didn’t give a fuck about others seeing his scars. not anymore. but he wasn’t in the mood to have people staring, or mothers hissing at him for traumatizing their kids. he’d laugh. as if this was anything close to ‘trauma.’ when yutae arrived at the location and sighted taemin, he pulled the mask off and slid it into his back jean pocket. yutae didn’t invest effort in hiding himself from taemin. he also didn’t go out of his way to tell taemin his entire life story. taemin didn’t know about haneul. or about NABI. or about the boy yutae used to be ( soft – vulnerable – bright eyes, brighter heart ). not because yutae didn’t trust taemin. he just felt that his story was an incredibly boring– so full of grief, trauma, loss, rage, angst– augh. he was so over it.
“you try killing yourself lately?” it was one of their usual greetings. sure, taemin didn’t know everything about yutae and vice versa. but they both knew they were A) involuntarily immortal B) weren’t very fond about staying alive forever. C) desperate to die but failing miserably. a strange camaraderie was formed from this. yutae smiled as he approached taemin. his smile only accentuated the scar on his face. “shotgun. failed. obviously. but at least i got a pretty scar. i hope this one doesn’t fade.” yutae drew out a cigarette, lit it, then offered the pack to taemin. “what’s up?”
The lights on the cityscape flicker, as though insecurities had finally caught up with them — all loose threads, grotesque to the core. Like how it has twined itself all over Taemin’s limbs, thorns unabridged, perforating flesh. As an afterthought, he realises that his decision to text Yutae was far from capricious — maybe just a lot of involvement in the subconscious; choice a product of dully processed fragments. None of the regrets arises from the epiphany, however, just a sense of existential crisis that’s always been haunting anyway.
It doesn’t proffer something new, just something cliche unearthed all over again: how his creator could create a perfected version of a clone, but not save a dying son? Not like the clone wanted to live forever, not like the clone wanted to live at all. Risible, for he was essentially just nothing more than a robot, yet here he is, filled with thoughts and feelings — what a hassle, really. But then again, what did he expect? Thoughts and feelings are products of everything in his systems — and no, not a soul. He doesn’t have a soul, everything is synthetic, manmade. Synapses and chemicals, that’s everything that he is, and that’s everything that tries killing him. Yet here he is, still existing.
He doesn’t realise the scatter of his own thoughts until Yutae’s presence nudges him back to reality. Or, more like a shove, really. A thrust back into the abyss composed entirely of truths and untruths. He casts a look at Yutae, noticing the faint scar formed on his face. Knows what it is almost immediately, no direct contact required for this one, really. Not when it’s Yutae. He tilts his head slightly, before redirecting his attention back to the simmering city lights, slowly fading as the night grows older, colder. He hums when Yutae asks the question, trying to recall the last time his failed attempt took place. A shrug, and he hasn’t answered when Yutae exposes a telltale story in regards to the scar, illuminated by the faint lights from the city capillaries down there. He takes a cigarette out of the pack, murmuring a quiet ‘thank you’ as he lights it, taking a grateful inhale.
“Not much,” he speaks, not moving an inch from where he’s been sitting. “Just, you know, pondering.” Turns his head to Yutae’s presence again, observing the scar. “It suits you,” he comments on the scar, which seems more faded than minutes ago. “Haven’t tried anything new; was thinking about jumping off this building, but recovery would be a bitch with that one. I’m not exactly a masochist — at least not in the mood for it.”
I am afraid of being alone with my own mind.
Sylvia Plath, from a diary entry featured in The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath (via violentwavesofemotion)
teaser — the second album move
fortitude.
Reality has stopped becoming a cluster of gossamer dreams nowadays; its solidity becoming more and more concrete in his fists, which is both a blessing and a curse. At least now he’s stopped questioning the core of his existence, for everything that’s anchored it has also been manipulated by the void into deaths. At least now he’s stopped pretending to become the man he mimicked for a living, for eventually the identity that becomes of him as a sentient being has sunk in deep enough for him to cease the existential inquiries. Still, he doesn’t sleep tight. Still, he doesn’t think well. But at least when he looks in the mirror, he’s learned to embrace the definition of a man, in spite of the stilted growth implemented into his system. Forever twenty, he looks and speaks years younger than he actually is.
Now, twenty-seven. He doesn’t miscalculate — his synthetic neurones don’t allow him to make that kind of mistakes. It wasn’t something that he could afford when he was meant to become a substitute of a boy died too young; everything has to be precise, even the mistakes. Now, twenty-seven, in the year of two-thousand and twenty. A fallible count, wrought into his mind. Now, twenty-seven, three years after the departure of a boy that previously was the fragments of his thoughts.
At first, he’d done everything in his power to follow Jongin’s every move, creating a synergy with a boy that loved him too much to comprehend the nature of Taemin’s framework. He knew everything: where Jongin went, why Jongin went. Or at least, he thought so. And after a few months, he’s learned to let go. He, after all, was the one battling with his own feelings, emotions. Told himself they were nothing more but mere chemical reactions, and in turn, he lost the one he learned to love. So, he doesn’t expect anything from Jongin anymore, believing it’s just another game that the fate plays with him, as it’s always been. So, when Jongin suddenly appears on the street across Taemin’s studio apartment, he doesn’t understand the way that the circumstance is being put together. At this distance, he almost does not recognise the boy anymore, now a man. No longer dressed in leather skirts and fishnet stockings, no longer standing with misplaced limbs and awkward gestures. He squints, and half-wishes that Jongin will disappear alongside the passing cars, just like a wisp of illusion.
&. @vrtemiis
anthropology.
This has become an index placed at the end of a series: a lacquering finish to a tale that’s always tinted with fortunes. In the place where the underground scene thrives, the beginning has always been a release of endorphin, just how he’s often underestimated for how he looks. They’ve always judged the book by its cover — understandable, however, considering the industry that they’re in right now. In a fight, those with looks comparable to his are rarely the winners, and so, people have learned to draw their own conclusions according to previous experiences. And in here, a new crowd, he’s also learned to draw his own conclusions according to previous experiences: he is to be intimidated, underestimated. Which is fine with him, really; it’s become amusing, so he lets them be.
At the dent of their notions on him, however, the crowd is taught to zip their mouths shut. The fall of the man twice his size is the encore to this verse, and the cheering stops. Takes a breathing. A lapse in the moment later, a small portion of the crowd erupts in applause, but most choose to remain in the confines of quiet, knowing they’ve lost their money to a man who deluded them into thinking that Taemin’s fate was obvious. He nods at the man, and when the stranger approaches him after he walks out through the back door of the dilapidated building, he’s barely surprised.
&. @dahliancgra
fallacies.
Nightfall is a streak of maladies colouring the skies with soft vermillion, like broken roses, bruised slowly. He peruses its details with every passing second, its momentum dripping like molasses. It’s risible, sometimes, how some things are no longer learned through touch, through memories. False knowledge, false nostalgia. He’s been trying to gauge more thoughts that are genuine, non-artificial. However, it’s easier said than done when he lived through the fallacies for decades, yet this is the kind of moments that he would savour for himself to ensure that now he’s free from the tether of his father, his creator. He squints slightly, devouring the stretch of the memento that sinks into his flesh with the change of colours, thoughts withering alongside the ending of the dusk. He sighs, looking away from the skies, diverting his gaze to his own hands. Palm lines that aren’t even his. Fingerprints that belong to the death.
He sighs, trying to exhale the heavy feelings with it to no avail. Reaches into the pocket of his hoodie to fish out his phone, scrolling through the names on his contact. There’s nobody that he’s missing in particular, but a name eventually stops him in his track, finger tapping onto that name to send a message. Are you free? he texts, although he knows that Yutae is likely to have time. And then, without thinking further, he tells Yutae his location in exact details, hoping that Yutae would be able to make it — would be able to wallow in the soak of nihilism with him this evening.
&. @jamaixvu
capricious.
An entrée to a night that whispers of vices, setting: a night club. He’s seated at the booth, it’s a weekday and he likes it that way — the noises are less condensed during this kind of day. In front of him, an untouched glass of bourbon on the rocks, sinking into manmade oblivion. His drinks are always left abandoned until he finds some excitement to accompany it, so usually the first glasses are mere decors. A sigh for the night as the seconds drill into the back of his head, in a rhythm of subjective tick tock tick tock that doesn’t end anytime soon. Ennui, in spite of the premise, until a familiar face comes over into the vicinity, drawing close in spite of the absence of invitation. Kai, after all, knows what he likes — a man with money, he’d like to be approached first, as always.
He’s a silhouette, at first — maybe it’s a she, now. Taemin is always left on a plateau of uncertainties when it comes to references, pronouns a confusion. He hums when Kai runs a hand over his shoulder, covered in a thin fabric of his t-shirt. He tilts his head sideways, admiring the beauty coveted by most in this club, but he knows he’s a priority for Kai. He taps his lap as an indication for Kai, now invited. Kai seems to grasp it fairly effortlessly, and that’s why Taemin likes Kai’s company. Seated on his lap, the leather skirt hikes up Kai’s thighs, revealing more off the skin, covered in fishnet stockings. Taemin hums, eyes trained on Kai’s, smirking. “Purple suits you,” he says, one hand playing with the curls that cascade past Kai’s shoulder, another stroking the thigh. “You look beautiful tonight. Dance for me?”
&. @vrtemiis
necrosis.
The night sinks its talons into his flesh with precision of the gravity, rattling his insides with the weight of the world. He’s no longer in the state of inertia — tonight is a cradle of actions, and he replaces his old identity with one marred with complexities. What previously was a mere replica slowly gathered a number of identities, confirming that he’s not a simple clone that’s lost its purpose after the death of his creator — although it used to be the case. This time, he does everything that the boy he mimicked would never do; the boy he mimicked is now no more than a fist of ashes, and he’s the one living. Survival of the fittest. It’s almost funny — past midnights he often wonders over the fact that the scientist chose to immortalise the boy in another form instead preserving the real deal. Alas, now he’s not in that phase anymore, not in the moment of questions and queries. Instead, he’s a road kill, but he’s not the victim.
Attention is placed back on the road; but it’s a synth of necessities instead of actual focus. He’s known these streets like the back of his hand, his replicated knowledge allowing him to work mechanically, auto-pilot. But he’s reinstated his concentration back onto the asphalt illuminated by the headlights of his car, winning in certainties. Comes to a drifted stop, swerving the car right after he passes by the finish line. The crowd cheers, the winners of the bet the loudest. He grins, customary, as he exits the vehicle. And when his mechanic approaches for the check, he hums, eyes trained on Jaewon. “I didn’t leave a single scratch,” he announces, as though proud. “But hey, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you. Where have you been?” More like, where has he been — Taemin hasn’t exactly been treating this like a routine, the races just a pastime. He doesn’t need the money, more of the thrill.
&. @artificvr
crescendo.
This time of the year has always been challenging, reminders of the lachrymose hanging at the back of his mind lacerating his every thought. He’s a synthesis of mindless wandering these days, seeking reprieve in all the wrong places when he’s not self-destructing in vain, participating in the scenes buried six feet under the capillaries of this city. And today is of no exception; the date of death is drawing closer, and closer, and closer. He’s smothering in his dreams, sinking into the weight of nostalgia proven futile. And when he finds his way into a small music store, he doesn’t think twice before making his way in. It’s small, almost rustic. The decor of this place reminds him of childhood places — implanted memories speak in tattered reforms, rippling as though his mind is a water body.
In spite of the absence in possession, knowing too well that those memories — with his hand in Appa’s — were nothing more than the fabricated ones, he still clings onto those histories with both hands, not letting go. If it wasn’t for the real Taemin, he cannot truly decide what he’ll be like. If it wasn’t for the real Taemin, he cannot truly appreciate the deluge of thoughts. If it wasn’t for the real Taemin, he wouldn’t have been human at all, no matter as faux as he could be.
He finds himself seated behind an old piano sold for a very low price, then, and when his fingers touch the keys, ivory and ebony, surge of memories slithers into the forefront of his mind. As a child, Umma used to teach Taemin how to play, being a professional player in her youth. And this Taemin now knows how to play every song taught by heart, and he begins to play one of the oldest melodies, stringing tunes together to form the sentimental tone to this nook in the past. It’s not until he finishes the song that he realizes someone is there, close enough to him. A spectator, uninvited. He offers her a smile, and a tilt of his head, asking, “Are you waiting to check out the piano?”
&. @cheangz
partiture.
singleroute:
the city lights are but a blur as aaron speeds through busy streets – much like most of his life. downfall as quick as his rise, the stages felt sprinted through, without much thought put into vital decisions. aaron snorts. how the mighty fall, trapped in a cycle of either running away or hiding. there will come a time when aaron will break the chain, maybe begin running towards something, some… unidentified goal. for now, life is a gentle breeze, quick and impotent.
aaron arrives as he always does, with impeccable precision and style – stagnant tires graze over asphalt in a swift drift that leaves the car perfectly parallel to the sidewalk. aaron takes a second to bask in his own skill, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips in unadulterated smugness. the street’s empty, with no one to witness the stunt – no matter how arrogant, aaron doesn’t have shit for brains. stepping out of the immaculately clean car with a card of his fingers through his hair, aaron glances around to confirm the lack of spectators in the vicinity.
aaron steps inside the building, loosening the tie around his neck, opening the suit. it’d been a busy delivery day, and in the end he’s dressed to the nines and exhausted to the core. the ride up to the roof is tauntingly slow and aaron finds himself glaring at the floor display on the elevator.
aaron immediately senses the scent of a shared vice and a smile finds its way onto his lips at the sight of a trustworthy face. “i am, sorry. believe it or not, i was stuck in a traffic jam for a couple minutes. had to take a long detour to avoid that and unwanted attention.” stepping closer to taemin, he extends his hand. “you mind giving me one? i’m all out.”
He hoists himself into an upright sitting position, casting a second-long glance back to the previous object of attention — the skyline — as though scared that it might alter itself in the terse moment prior. And then, back to Aaron as the other man draws closer to him, inhaling the presence of a friend. It feels like a piece of jigsaw falling into its right place, fitting in impossibly well alongside the contoured space. He hums at the apology, shrugging to indicate that it’s not a big deal at all. He’s known Aaron long enough to not mind waiting for him for a while — time, after all, is an excess in Taemin’s clock, spilling seconds off the days like an overflowing sink.
He peruses Aaron as a hand is stretched out, requesting a smoke. He fishes his pack out of his leather jacket’s pocket, feeling it getting lighter and lighter — time to restock, maybe he should take a trip to the convenience store nearby his studio apartment later tonight. Offers the lighter to Aaron as well, waiting for the other to settle on the space next to him. He says nothing until seconds later, eyes trained over the specked lights scattered across Seoul. “A long day today, huh?” A laid-back question as he leans back slightly, an arm propping up the weight of the upper half of his body.
schadenfreude.
Clasped around his fist is the half-mooned night, insipid to the tongue. Behind his teeth are words unsaid towards the company, now nothing more underneath the dissipating jaundice lights but silhouettes. They’re off the sight, now, hidden beneath the shadows casted by the adjacent buildings — Seoul is beautiful that way: there are too many crooks of it that can be used to hide away. Even people like him, people who aren’t supposed to belong, can hide in plain sight, as though the lights around them have simply dimmed. And in here, the most palpable of an instance; Hanbyul is a man kept in the confines of the dark, and for that reminder alone, Taemin can feel the creeping guilt.
It’s almost risible. He, after all, lies for a living. Has been a lie since the beginning — birthed with every bathed breath destined for it. His purpose of life has never been redesigned, even after the passing of his ‘father’, the blueprint remaining the way it is. After a lie, more will entail. That’s just the cycle of life. That’s just how it is, regardless of what he’d like to do about it. Not like everyone would believe in the fact that he is a clone; and the man next to him is a sample out of the cluster.
They’re stargazing in spite of the bareness of the skies, expanse coloured in the mirrored illumination of the cityscape. Blurred thoughts whir at the back of his head as the silence sinks in further, and they’re drowning in it like a stone in the sea. Speaking of the sea, he hasn’t been for a while, and he misses the saline scent of its air... And then, his thoughts are halved by the rustling next to him. Hanbyul is sitting up, and staring at him. Taemin looks back at him, fixating his gaze on the man. A quirk of the eyebrow, tacitly inquiring what the man’s thinking. Hanbyul is a man of mysteries — it’s still a wonder how he still believes in the fact that Taemin is... the dead one. And by the dead one, meaning the real one. Meaning the sixteen years old ashes.
&. @stilledsouls
IMAGINE THIS: a. ) Your skin is never truly yours; instead, it’s a carbon copy. b. ) Shower and scrub it, try to get rid off someone else’s smell. c. ) And you’re rubbed red, sinking in thoughts, remember: The person you’re imitating is dead, and watching.
partiture.
These stories come alive in the depth of the midnight syllabus, when darkness has risen high up the skies, brimmed on the bottom with the weight of cityscapes. He traces them according to the contours shaped out of skyscrapers, lower buildings; fingers dancing in the air as though drawing. In here, the thick blackness that dreams of clocked silhouettes, ending when the horizon glows with dawn. In here, the neon lights that surge into unveiled sight, ending when the urban tales end in the morning. He cannot pretend that he doesn’t love the evenings, the nights, regardless of the memories that they stomach — the rising plumes, the sinking ashes. He thinks of a boy whose smile is looped around too many of his thoughts, submerging himself in the nostalgia that ripples to suffocate. He’s absorbed into the vortex of lifeless limbs of the mind, letting his thoughts carried by the stream.
Between his fingers: a wrapped carcinogen, the scent of tobacco colouring the air alongside the emptied exhales. Burning ember, sighing moment. He waits, waiting for a friend that comes late — perhaps there’s a job, perhaps there’s a hindrance. Doesn’t matter — more time for himself means more toxin, but then again, he’s a masochist. The rivulets of poisonous thoughts swirl into the peripheries of his mind again, and he drowns himself willingly until he’s gasping for air. Inhales, exhales. Inhales, exhales. Stops for a second when he notices someone else’s presence on the rooftop. He turns his head, tilting it sideways to acknowledge Aaron’s presence. “You’re late,” he simply states, but there’s no urgency in his tone — just a sense of static, inert. “I thought you were the one who decided on our meeting time. This was your idea, after all. Where have you been?”
&. @singleroute
Taemin シャイニー 「Get The Treasure」
