A.Journal

Checks

277 checks

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Profile. Clear view.

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On his finger, a wedding ring.

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Her cigarette dirties the table. She winces, tries to reach for a dishcloth, gives up.

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Eyes sore. Vice grip in skull... Gonna get squished...

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Ahahaha. Says you fucked it.

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From the room next door, the sound of the television warps and slows ever so slightly.

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The air in the tram is stifling, charged, near flammable.

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Death wouldn't smell this bad. Burning hair, burning metal. Burning flesh.

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The red hole hisses beneath your hands.

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His cheek is rough with stubble.

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The red hole hisses beneath your hands.

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Her cheek is soft against your fingers.

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One of Tesoro's cards.

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The overhead lights cast a sickly green colour across the brown paper.

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One of his pockets does seem heavy.

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The camera aperture whirrs as it zooms in on the oversized pill bottle.

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His upper lip inclines to the right as he speaks. His canine is chipped.

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Portofiro's sprawl flashes briefly across his six-fold lenses as he sneers at the city below.

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The antennae extend tens of metres into the void, their length dwarfing the satellite's.

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Written over months, if not years, given the different pen colours and how the inks faded. This is something Straniak returned to.

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Sun-facing panels glimmer like the frost-touched carapace of a great insect.

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Signals unfurl around you. An ocean of drifting voices and prayers lost amid the electromagnetic spectrum.

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High pressure tries to expand from the direction of the Eastern Republics, but low pressure from the Noscorrentes region will continue to compete. Conditions likely to remain unsettled throughout the week, seek comfort in the familiar.

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Had you been standing a couple metres farther away, you wouldn't have registered movement.

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Rain from sky-smeared cloud pools in the cracked pavement.

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Somewhere nearby, a stray creature grunts as it tousles through long-discarded things.

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It's been scrubbed clean more than once, to banish graffiti, paste, grime.

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Dust gathers on everything. This place has been preserved exactly as it was once left -- months or even years ago.

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Her smile cracks the skin of her lower lip.

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She pants slightly from the effort of extended speech.

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She whispers 'sorry' to the machine.

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Ahead of you -- there.

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Once you're done with the sections here, you'll want to go through those big, unsorted piles too. Could be something premium in there.

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Images aren't enough. You need to get hands-on -- rolling around, biting, giggling.

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The faintly sweet smell of old paper, tinged with an unpleasant hint of mildew.

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A pained intensity in his lowered voice that strains his vocal chords.

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Shortness of breath. Pale, sweaty complexion. Nosebleeds. Symptoms of hypertension.

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You throb at her words. Your heart dances, your nipples ache.

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For a second, you see a third eyehole open in his bag. But then it goes.

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Blood drips from his mouth to his eye.

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You can almost hear the phone ringing throughout Bagman's studio, reverberating off the empty plastic cups and audio equipment.

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The dishes she hands you are hot, clean, and faintly lemon scented.

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Your heart flutters, races. This is scary -- awesome!

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You can still feel hard edges against you, even as your mind splits into pieces.

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A steady crowd noise drifts over from that direction.

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Smells like rubber bands, hardly vegetal. It is also very obviously dry.

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No cologne this time -- only a faint, metallic scent.

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A mild, yet regrettably symmetrical case of double-strabismus.

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You hear excited screams from behind you.

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Incredible detail -- handrails, tools leaning on the shed, a giftshop sign. But the faces carved into the rock are featureless, unidentifiable.