All coordination/ Matching to the heart’s content/ Let the mind wander
Taste of Disappointment
I’m ever trying anything new again
snapshots | ep 7: best friends
hi guys! hope your last weeks of the semester are going v lovely. i’ll be graduating soon so thats kinda spooky..but cool. my sisters the finder of things on the ground this week! ty.
brings me to my attention if anyone reading wants to send me interesting things they find around or on the ground at campus please send me them my way and ill credit you in a post!
cheers!
Capturing Campus: This ain’t his house
This ain’t his house
a man lives in my attic
I don’t know if he knows that I know that he lives in my attic
but he sure as hell knows that I know that this ain’t his house
his feet don’t hit the floorboards right
the house squeaks to let him know
he fuzzied the bristles on my toothbrush
and the cabinet doors are wide open
he lets them breathe
speakin’ something sad
Every night is a rhythm:
stomp the steps
lift the door
plump the pink
pillow in my attic—not his but mine
because this ain’t his house
though he snores like he owns it
I’ll talk to him tomorrow
Headshots + Website!
I made a website with short stories about my world for a class last semester. Meant to post it at the end of last semesters, but here it is! It has short stories, an intro, and a bunch of character intros. Here is all the headshots I drew for the website:
Over the break, I redesigned some characters, so the sheet’s already a bit outdated. I didn’t want to spend too much time on the art, hence the rough coloring style.
aSoSS 52 | Gradient
Do you know anyone in high school right now?
Yeah, my sister.
Is she a tweaker or is she normal? My brother’s normal.
Science Learning Center, 5:00PM, 2/19/2025
imagination is a gradient of experience charted against naïveté. it is the tightrope between consciousness and fear, where a knife is seen as shiny instead of sharp. to be able to listen to a house and hear the laughter through its membrane. to be able to look at a cloud and see a cloud and not a butterfly, or a hibiscus, or a tragedy. a contraction–a contradiction–in a mirror we crystallize infinity and sell it back to ourselves. in this crystal, a tombstone: you are a name, and then a last name, and no more.
I’ll be doing a lot of things this weekend, and by a lot of things, I mean doing nothing.
Chem Building, 10:30PM, 3/23/2025
there is a summer hidden behind the curtain of a weeknight, an eternity nested within itself. every day is a sacrifice and every sacrifice demands a savior. the sky opens like a slit throat, warm and gushing with the promise of a sunset, a scar that will wrinkle in the sun. in the shadow of the moon–in the interval between now and never–you will disappear into the black and i will not even have the thought of your face for comfort. oh, martyr! on that summer weeknight you became a hero to the world and the memory of a hero to me.
With this message, do you think you are blessing him or do you think you are cursing him?
Palmer Commons, 4:00PM, 4/9/2025
and then suddenly, a tilt of the head and the heart is gasping for air. each sentence a slipknot: a mouthful, or a minefield? a rose, freshly cut, stem against cheek, dying between breaths–who is the one dying? how easily the words spilled from my fingers and onto the page. the ink bleeds transparencies, truths unveiled and secrets deciphered. your glance dissolves muscle and unzips bone, a medusa in media res, where serpents shatter glass with their tongues and turn beads of sweat into reams of stone.
