It’s very loud to me, on this side.


NYC Subway // Scott Glover // 2012

I woke today, chest weighted and head racing. I dreamed that Kristen and I had moved to Brooklyn NY. I don’t get it. I don’t ask for it. I don’t even visualize things like that consciously much anymore. So I suppose the residual, fingerprints that stay behind tend to find their way to surface in suspicious ways. Or maybe the empath part of me is screaming things to my face.

I could smell the wood and feel the unevenness of the floor. The brushing past door frames of the apartment and seeing the scuff marks along the bottoms with their layers of gray. Scattered shadows dancing across the ceiling while moving a lampshade. The weathering across the stoop, and it’s oddly comforting hearth welcome (we don’t even have those in Texas). The sound of cardboard boxes sliding across a gritted floor.

I wiped the damp snowing off of my face.

It’s penetrating to wake up like this. It’s like wires pulling me across thousands of miles. A stapling of notes to the back of my head. They echo, they ring, and they resonate. It will fuck with me, and linger. As things like this constantly challenge my comfort zone, rattling any kind of idling that I have. It makes me add up everything that I have seen in life and ask myself “is this all you ever want to see?”. And my answer is always and absolutely, definitely, “no”.

She‘s been gone for sometime now. I tiptoe around the haziness of what was, and what it leaves behind. I somehow forgot the way she smells. Or maybe I distanced it away, hoping that it’s absence would make finding it again that much more exorbitant.

I do know that I fully worry about this winter ahead. And what it brings. My thanksgiving, Xmas, and new years will be finding their way into the stitches of course. It’s all part of it, a never-ceasing storm when you feel everything too much.

And at the end of the day, please just fucking put me on that plane.

Working through the seasons. Pressed up against the ceiling. Pushing down on me. – The XX, Lips


Park Thirty Five

AFE cover art by Daniel Crosier 2012. Acrylic and graphite on wood. See more of his work at and also on his Deviant Art Page

It’s 3:16 am, I’ve been sick for about 14 hours presently waging war between the late night sweats and the early morning fever chills. An ill body turns your dreams into a wet canvas that melds all of your thoughts into one, drowning your vision in faded pastels as you simultaneously wash the colors off the face that hovers about the sink. It’s the splashes of water that sprinkle across my forehead that I only really care about right now. They act as pinpricks on my mind reminding me that this too will soon pass..

I find it unnerving that it’s when we are most vulnerable our heads begin to tell us things, reminding us of the baggage we carry. The closer we are to our mortality, the more we question the decisions we have made in the past. Re-imagining those vivid doors we have opened and closed, and those fingerprints we have left on each other. It’s like a photograph that no one knew was taken. A look in someone’s eye can wrap the strings tightly around my chest, as I feel it pull on the ends of their fingertips. It’s these rare moments that are speckled across our road, it’s these moments that I hope cease to be ever stricken from my head. I’m unable to erase such things, as if written in stone, they cannot ‘wither away’ but simply be ‘weathered upon’.

I hope that you find the apple of your eye. I hope that you, or anyone can excise the pieces of a past that tie themselves to your ankles as you walk. Is it in the cosmos that we sit and aimlessly wait for some so-called ‘soulmate’ to be delivered to our doorsteps that we will sign for and watch it blossom before us. I think not. It’s up to us to carve the way through and find that something that can’t be undone, as I believe the thoughts permeate for reasons – dreams tell us things from parts of our conscious we can’t understand. The fools they sit, and give up their hands to be tied and be led on through a life that just seems to fluctuate between ‘mediocre’ and ‘stagnant’.

I am not one of those fools. We plucked that fruit from our eyes. And perhaps I will never forgive myself for allowing that to transpire. Sometimes there is no morning when you finally wake up, and the bricks that lay across your chest mysteriously disappear. It’s what we carry, these are the blocks of finally finding our way. I’ve wired mine to my wrists as they remind me of what it was like to wake up with a breath across your face.

And if it turns out to all be the fairy tale of a world that is made up in my head, then I really have no desire to satisfy anyones expectations as to where things should have led me. It only means I have to yell louder. If not for my own sake than for yours. It’s the echoes off these walls that wake me in the middle of the night in a sweaty glaze, It’s really nothing I have not already said here before.

People will medicate themselves into believing “this is what makes me happy”. I refuse to be medicated into “talking myself out of being happy”. And if you think that all it took was a small little pill to convince anyone of what this world thinks you need, than I truly am sorry for you. As you lay down, as anyone lays down you then will always find it on your own. Alone is ‘as we lay’ and each systematically really are. That alone inside your head, resides what is our truest form.

And it’s in that vulnerability, that you have to find that someone who shares that first glance. No matter what the cost, as we really are the ones threading the needle that will ultimately weave our own life. And it’s that search in finding and holding onto that someone who shares that truest form with you.

That form that  paints the names across each others mouths every morning when we wake.