Lviv in the 90s, photos by Vili Furhalo
'julian hakes, "mojito," 2012' in killer heels: the art of the high-heeled shoe - lisa small (2014)
he had to jump in the ballpit to cool off after getting all airplane ears over a treat puzzle that proved a little too advanced
You make soup in a big bowl. You serve it in a smaller bowl. And then you convey it, using a spoon, to your mouth. But what is the spoon? Simply a smaller bowl still
Ikko Narahara, 1950s
ALT
Listen. It’s morning. Soon I’ll see your hand reach for my watch, the water will agitate in the kettle, but listen. Traffic. I want your dreams first. And to slide my leg beneath yours before the day opens. Wait. We slept late. You’ll be moody, the phone will ring, someone wanting something. Let me put my hands in your hair. Who I was last night I would be again. This is how the future holds me, how depression wakes with us; my body shelters it. Let me put my head on your breast. I know nothing lasts. I would try to hold you back, not out of meanness but fear. Oh my practical, my worldly-wise. You know how the body falters, falls in on itself. Tell me that we will never want from each other what we cannot have. Lie. It’s morning.
Morning poem by Robin Becker