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i sat on your doorstep and kept my mouth shut until my words ran in so many circles inside my head that they tired themselves out—at least momentarily. i tried to distract myself by counting the brick steps carrying my weight. but my stubborn words always win, suggesting that maybe thoughts never leave the body until physically released. the ghost of my overflowing thought pattern beams over my shoulder; i am a slave to my own predicament. my words, stagnating in a chaotic fashion, assemble and reassemble on top of one another until a string of three words merely slip out of my modest lips: i love you.



Photos by Sam Doyle

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weeping sky.

the worn outbatoko clothingbatoko clothingworn out blog0001509_0001509-R1-E020worn out blogthe worn outbatoko clothingthe worn outDX_18DX_35DX_24DX_250001509_0001509-R1-E0350001509_0001509-R1-E036the worn out0001509_0001509-R1-E0170001509_0001509-R1-E019solid white lines pave the direction of cars. parallel streets glisten to the weeping sky. stop lights follow the rules: the repeating pattern of green, yellow and red.

a girl walking aimlessly on the sidewalk drops her umbrella and runs to the middle of the street. there are no cars as far as she can see on either side. with an open chest and and a transparent heart, she puts her arms up and sympathizes with the weeping sky above.



Photos by Beth Kotz



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a beautiful blur.

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gravity feels heavier when she’s around. her heart carries a lot of yesterday, making her insides plummet at the sight of weakness.

her set of tea for two sits untouched on the roof. heavy winds blow her hand-painted napkins away. the gravel sticks to the bottom of her shoes as she makes her way closer to the edge of the roof. she doesn’t have much of a plan, she never really has. untying her shoe laces, she continues looking straight ahead.

she holds everything inside her. but this time it all plummeted to the ground. a rare sight to see. her lover makes his way up the ladder to the roof to find this dismantled sight. a beautiful blur. gravity has won at last.



Photos by Cezar

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black vail.

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it’s crazy to think there are people in the world whose eyes will never meet hers. she sits cross-legged on a bench in an empty park. 4pm on a january evening is a safe time for wild eyes to come out to play.

her eyes always stand a little distant during the day, observing her surroundings without action. but when she dances alone to the moon light across the naked concrete, the dark circles under her eyes seem a little brighter. The moon even begs to reach beyond her invisible black vail.

she likes to read books, but she never finishes them. she doesn’t like the way they end. she says that unlike the real world, every story in a book ends with a purpose. but she’s never quite figured out what her purpose will be at the end.

but i met her eyes at 4pm on a january eve and i promised to keep her safe. i watched as she danced to the moon light caressing her skin. i read her books under a lamp post in an empty park, and i followed her request to never tell her how many pages were left. because anticipating the end makes the vail rise again.

“keep me safe and i’ll keep you wild” was the last thing i remember her say. and all that repeats in my head now is that i wish i asked her name.


SHIRT by American Apparel

DRESS by Forever 21

Photos by Cachet

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“our hearts are wild creatures. that’s why our ribs are cages” she mutters as she pours the end of her lagavulin bottle on the pile of furs and jewels on her living room floor, with that look on her face like mistakes are just nature’s thrill seekers.

she’s an old soul in an old body. she’s had more than most people ever will. she’s lived beyond the point of giving a fuck, because giving a fuck requires explaining your past to your present.

and that theme has resurrected her old habits.

it’s been 8 days since she left the house, 4 days since she had solid food, and 22 hours until she would fall into a lasting coma beside her fur on the living room floor.

she finally takes a seat next to me, letting her fragile body sink into a love seat that costs more than my chevy parked in her ten-car driveway.

“when i was 8 i broke three ribs” she takes a slow drag of her hand-rolled cigarette, “when they woke me up on the hospital bed asking how it happened, i broke out laughing”


smoke comes out of her mouth and dances away from her lips in the shape of poorly-drawn circles, and for the first time during my 3 hour visit to her home, she looks up at me,

“i found it funny that the doctors didn’t realize how wild a heart can be.”



Photos by Cachet

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beggar’s prayer.

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it was a day like today. i paid my dues, i sang along with the world’s tunes. i collected all hope in sight and kept it safe in a box. i glued a jewel on top and instructed it to shine on a day like today, when i forget about this bank and the world tunes underway.

i rearranged my map. i deflected my sight from distracting peripherals to the direct path ahead. side roads, off roads, i got lost following my own map.

jeweled box in hand, your solacing words circulate in my head. so with a beggar’s prayer on my tongue, i flip the map and write on the back: “when i was lost you thought me a beautiful find.”



Photos by Cachet

Listening to: Beggar’s Prayer
by Emiliana Torrini

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worn out - fashion blog

worn out blogstyle blog - worn outstyle blog - fashion blogstyle blog - worn outyou left for a long time today. lifted yourself out of your miserable constant, i suppose. i called to say goodbye. not because i care about you. but because i want you to care about me. a ‘courtesy call’, right? like when those telemarketers call in the middle of your dragging work day to pretend like they give a shit about your needs.

our phone conversation drifts in and out like waves. much like the presence of your emotional state. barely reaching shore. coming and going at your leisure. but i’m forgiving, i suppose. i’ll lift the heaviness in your chest because as i’ve told you many times before, the heaviness in your chest is transferable energy. because behind all your “yes” “great” “i’ll call” “i’ll email” talk i can feel the buzzing of an underlying statement: “someone come and lift me out of here”. but no one can hear your buzzing over the filler words. they can just feel it. they can identify with it. they can, regardless of your strong efforts in blocking off your leaking emotions, forgive. but i’m only forgiving because i’ve needed to be forgiven.


PANTS by Motel Rocks
DENIM MOTO VEST by 15 FIFTEEN (via Urban Outfitters)

Photos by Sam Doyle

Listening to: Sierra Lift
by Blue Hawaii

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