camera | nocturnes


These nights are like all nights. They only feel different as each night feels different. The smell of it is often something varied and specific. The taste of it can be wet or dry. It could be be cold or it could be hot.

You’d only know through cutouts and disguises and falsehoods. The truest pictures of the night are those ones with the camera panned well up above the thronging colourmasses and up to the tops of the decaying buildings. Take a photo of a summer night, take a photo of a winter night. It all looks the same.

Spring nights are different.


They were contemplating a depraved flaneurism from on top of the roof as they tried to look at the truest view of the city without a camera. They weren’t sure if they should break their aesthetic loyalties and look down at the people and regard them coolly and from a (literally) elevated position.

They weren’t sure what that sort of urban metaphor would mean if they were rapidly losing elevation as they were doing it. They were fairly certain of a lot of things.

Only, they didn’t know if it was warmth first crunch later or if it was the other way around.


The moon hangs above as all, a petulant orb pregnant with all the meanings important people have attached to it. It is woman, demure and the counterpoint to the sun. It is madness. It is coldness. It is alien strangeness. It is the false god of the night.

Perhaps the moon isn’t any of these things. Perhaps the moon is angry and sad. Perhaps the moon feels this way because someone’s writing another poem about it and making it to be something it is not.

Perhaps the moon demands intellectual property legislation. Maybe something simpler. Maybe pre-art consent.


Some part of the rationale behind their  actions might very well be because of the spring. Perhaps in their desire to turn their living, breathingness into art, their individuality into a product for the collective, they found the spring night to be a counterpoint to the sculpture they were beginning to mold.

Spring is the season of life.

They prepare to fashion death.


Art is difference. If you find a  world that’s one homogeneous block, one thing or perhaps a thing close to that, ask them if they know what a painting is or why it’s necessary and they won’t. Art is difference.

But is the difference in the universe before you came to make your mark on it enough for you to deem it art or is it merely randomness. All art is difference but all difference is not art, yes?

Spring is the season of life or death. Pan your camera up above them in their disguises and lies and you shall then see the city and the night in all its veracity.


That’s the last one. And perhaps the only real nocturnal one. Thanks for following along. All the header images are from . 




placenta | nocturnes


All of a sudden, things become autumnal. Things are amniotic, before. Things are warm and cosseted and sounds echo gently and reach your forming ears wetly and you react with unknowing idiocy. Tethering is all you know. If you had any more sense, you’d take it for granted but you’re probably too stupid to do even that.

Autumn is not an end-state. It is a process. It is a narrative, a series of interconnected events.

Autumn is a story.


Americans call autumn fall because it is the time the leaves fall. And fallen leaves are the way you relate to this time of year, in your own tactile way. You’ve probably already thought about the sensation of crunching, dry organism under the heels of your shoes. But the fall is not the fallen. The fall begins with a prologue. A thin strip of tissue connecting you to a tree.

You are going gently into that cold night. But it isn’t a snap and a bang. It is peril and fear and terror but there is probably time in there for love and hope and family.

The fall is life.


We don’t romanticise the dead the way we romanticise autumn. Our paintings are paintings of creatures mid-fall, frozen in the air. The fall is too fast for us to consider any one moment particular eventful but perhaps temporarily like that is something we all decided to make up, together.

Maybe we’re more obsessed with the end-state than any of us let on.

Is falling worth it?


Some placentae are green, others are not.

Meander or hover after that. Get crunched. Get saved in some little kid’s leaf-book. Maybe someone will take a picture of us.

Falling is worth it.


Falling hurts. Falling is dipping and weaving through the spaces between things and I make up horrible things to fill those spaces and I live my life an auteur. A creator-actor. I have to pretend the eldritch horrors I conjure up don’t exist.

Giving and taking and losing and eking and looking at the dead leaves in front of you and the little spot where you’ll land.

Is that a breeze?


bloodloss | nocturnes


In wintertime, tumults gently coalesce into blankets and warmness. Cold feet are made cold not artificially. It is dusk and as they take their boots off they are reminded of the sweatlayer of hotter times. Nobody really makes the sorts of food people want to make in the cold anymore, except in the takeout/microwave varieties and there are probably also vanilla air-fresheners and toilet scentbags.

They say you are more ravenous in the winter. They say birds eat more and you see everything crowd around sunny spots basking and forgetting.

Winter is active amnesia.


Warmth is a new thing. It is a scampering for permanence. It is feeling blindly in the dark and it is tactile mistakes we try to maneuver around.  It is a vehement refusal against a wave of chapterisation and neat clean titles.

Strain for your commas and semicolons as the seasons change and you pull out your second blanket. You’re drinking hot milk everyday. You’re running away from full-stops.

Winter is the creamy synthesiser behind the rattles and ukuleles.


Have I heard stories about frostbite? I think I have, though I don’t think I understand it very well. If your hands are in the cold long enough they can eventually just break off like a ceramic teacup. Why is this story so painlessly bloodless?

I want something so unnatural. I want to see crimson flow like a liquid prop over crunchy snow and make pools for maggi-wrappers to be islands on.

Why can’t winter be a little less intensity-negating.


In the afternoon he sweats and shivers as it evaporates under a ceiling fan. Clean rooms and warm orange lights are as nice as the blankets are, if a little grimy by now this late into the evening/season.

What if nobody knows if you’re bled out? What if it happens at night as you sleep if they make little pricks on the soft skin of your hands and feet and patch you up before the morning comes?

Mosquitoes go away somewhere in the winter.


If you’re looking for bloodloss, now isn’t the time friend, for it is winter, that eternal maker-numb of everything. This is the time when you’re socialised into liking that which is not real. Your sweaters and soft scarves and laughs are all the nice things that are hollow inside the shell because they are constructed from fictions like friction and trapped breath.

Your blanket is a lie. The only true heat is from the sun and in winter, the sun turns their face away from you and you surround yourself in illusions.

In winter, everyone crowds and forgets, stretching their hands and feet out to a disdainful sun.


What’s To Come


I don’t know, honestly. At this point, anything could happen. I’m at that point where I want to blog seriously but I have no idea what exactly to blog about. So, here’s a very quick preview of the verbiage that is about to splatter across your beautiful laptops and iPads in the days and weeks to come.

Wattpad reviews. Basically, reviews of serialized fiction from the online platform, Wattpad. Keep an eye out for a review of Imalroc by @smaoineamh coming soon.

This thing on Clark Ashton Smith. And a thing on Lovecraft.

And yeah, that’s about it, honestly.

Stay tuned, whoever you are. Unless it’s just you, dead air. In which case, hello, old friend.