Two friends swap musings while exploring the terrain of Utah.
The narrow brick stairwells that wind the guts of the old art museum will, without a doubt, remain entirely intact in the event of a nuclear holocaust. Their dusty beige color encroaches no more than an extra inch on either side, and the individual bricks themselves seem centimeters wider and taller than the standard, although perhaps it is the lines of cement between them that are more than usually thick. The lighting fixtures are a quiet white barely tinged with yellow warmth, with a focus on the landings that spills magnanimously down across the flights. The unobtrusive bulbs, once considered, exude the dimness of an emergency electrical system, albeit a powerful one, and they never flicker. All together, these dimensions leave the traveler with an impression that the concrete walls extend for miles on either side, above and below — an ambience one finds oddly comforting when one has sought the stairwell voluntarily. Continue reading
A group of friends road trips to Charlotte, North Carolina for a weekend of partying with the local characters.
Edgar Montaugh was seventeen years old when he discovered he could walk through walls. Or, he didn’t exactly walk through the first one. That part came later. Continue reading
Cuando te fracasan las palabras que tienes,
cuando no son bastantes,
cuando no las tienes, Continue reading
The white and green cardboard cartons of various frozen foods were swimming before me, stacking themselves left and right in squiggly patterns. I blinked and hugged my sweatshirt closer to my chest, standing still as a statue, while the normal shoppers passed me curiously by. Keep your mouth shut. Continue reading