We are aware only of the empty space in the forest, which only yesterday was filled with trees.

Anna Freud

100 Mile Road

I stumble across a fire opal in the middle of the highway and pick it up and there’s a honey-bee buzzing inside. The opal is the honey-bee. And as I hold the bee in my hand, all kinds of flowers and roses and honey pour out of it and the bee turns into a nightingale and bursts into song as the first star of evening pricks the lilac edge of the horizon.

The body beautiful // Amber Vittoria

Above a feed of bright, fantastically exaggerated and canvas-filling female bodies illustrator, the bio of New-York based illustrator Amber Vittoria displays the mission statement: “Dismantling societal tropes set upon women.” Essentially inspired by the human form, the artist’s works feature a collection of softly rounded, wobbling forms that are both vivid and whimsical, tender and empowering.

The Story of the Yes Man

We had danced when I first visited Berlin. I was surprised that It Guy had wanted to dance with me. I was still operating under OSYankee.

But when I returned to Berlin I had upgraded my operating system to OSPirateQueen, so I was not surprised when he wanted to dance with me all over again.

The renaissance of comics // Ali Fitzgerald

What do you think of when you think about comics? Whether it’s the illustrated fantasy worlds of Spiderman and Batman, or memories of skipping straight to the cartoon segments of newspapers as a child, the medium certainly occupies its own space in the cultural imagination. But whilst Marvel and DC may be reaping the rewards of a seemingly endless slew of Hollywood adaptations of their classic comics, this combination of text and image lends itself to so much more than superheroes and children’s stories.

Perhaps I write for no one. Perhaps for the same person children are writing for when they scrawl their names in the snow.

Margaret Atwood

the morning commute.

Faces slips through
the cracks between
train carriage windows.
One by one
Three by four
until the blur of bodies
And rising voices
Become one moving being,
Inhaling and exhaling
the excesses of the city.

Tanzen wir, oder?

Flashing lights illuminate
sweaty, exuberant faces
and I tilt my head back
reaching my arms to the ceiling
and examining my fingers
as they intertwine
and create their own dances,
as though aware of some other rhythm.