A.Journal

Checks

150 checks

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Ramping up to the chorus...

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Trust them to the angels for now.

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Holes punctured in the tram's body, daylight stars.

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Chorus incoming...

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Trust them to the angels for now.

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Darkness, thunder crack, torchlight illuminating his face.

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As much a part of it as any building, any crossroads, any patch of slate grey sky.

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She knows the feeling, but not the word.

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Half a horoscope.

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A polite round of applause for the support act.

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A small seed of him, sprouting.

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In their minds, completely unable to conceive of anyone who would want to bring harm to their idol, the only possible explanation is a romantic one.

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Wait, don't leave her. Take her home with you.

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You could just tell Gonza that you couldn't find it...

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Yet another poster that would look awesome on the wall above your bed.

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Alright, hear this out: how about this poster for the wall next to your bed.

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Hold on, you know what could use a little more Reality?

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Artificial dreams flicker against the wall. Fleeting promises of what could be yours for the price of a few sol.

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HOLOCENE wouldn't touch this with a barge pole. It's nowhere near deranged enough.

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The title greets you as if with a bow.

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The ruler of a future kingdom, his throne already concrete in his mind.

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This is what remains after you have ripped out all attachments by the root.

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Somehow you know she is right: where you are going, money will not help you.

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It's a misty, watercoloured memory for her.

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Pages filled with heart, with soul -- attempting to put into words the inscrutable feelings unique to these modern times.

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Experimentation inside a given medium is the only way its boundaries can be discovered and transgressed.

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There's at least one of these in every issue.

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Plushie #3 will bite down on the neck of the world and fuck it 'til it howls.

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A shrine to possibility -- a shrine, perhaps, to right now.

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A glass chandelier on fraying rope.

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Notice that the broadcast is in Mircean -- not Luzian. Dubbed for a foreign audience.

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The show's art style is identical to the wolf cup you came across.

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A fur coat even more desirable than the one you're wearing.

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Dangerous, mythical, electrifying... no wonder the kids are watching this.

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He was cheap furniture in a burning room.

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You picture the words in bold on the cover of the world's least enthusiastic travel brochure.

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You can almost hear the emotional blast doors slamming shut.

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You can almost hear the emotional blast doors slamming shut.

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Life is a palliative measure.

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The last impression you register is the brush hairs scraping ineffectually over a layer of sad decrepitude that is not exactly filth.

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Tomorrow, the dust will have spread again. Objects will erode, and total amount of dust in the world will have increased by an infinitesimal amount.

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'Nice Campaign' certainly sounds better than 'laboratory of urban decay'.

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The way you phrased that makes it sound like you're in possession of a knock-off.

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It's you, but from a bad dream.

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He's staring at the sky like it's his first time seeing it.

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From this altitude, it looks like Portofiro has been caught in a web of dark yarn.

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Tarsier shaped! A little curled-up tarsier!

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Hemorrhoidal anus, disabled bird, squiggly line of undefined intent.

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All self-perpetuating cycles are a form of the hunt. Addiction, anxiety, conquest. The Chase, the Flight.

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The glow of the candles' collected light reflecting on the awning, their warmth cutting through the cold.