If you laugh at how I eat baklava, I will hit you and then cry.

"You need to put tacks in your back pocket and call them your thinking pants." -Gordon Shearer, Urge to Smack Yourself-

I feel like a new shirt or the cool side of a pillow. I'm unsure of my voice; thinking casually accumulated entertaining tidbits, collected almost at random and presented haphandedly, or, at worst, halfheartedly offered are spurious in their merit and sparse rewarding of lengthier inspections. I feel Winter starting to break and close shop. It's a ways away but heartening to think of those passing few moments before the frost begins to knit itself back over. With this fuel, I hope for heartier bread to be read.
Their phrasing is adorable.


I miss using a darkroom, but still worry about the lasting effects the chemicals and their fumes had/have/will have on my systems. Still, I miss the smell.


I love how the worlds of some painters are populated by their recognizable breeds of people, like Schiele, or, hell, Modigliano.


I'd like to have a mask handy for unforeseen masquerade balls.


Hiroshige's One Hundred Famous Views of Edo are in Brooklyn?


Speaking of ART in the city, Matt Stuart's working is hilarious.


I got a guitar.


For no reason, Iggy and Debbie (reason enough).

Abandoned Constructions.



I dread the morning train sometimes.

Robots (via Angora Mint)