'My advice to all young writers is quite simple. I would caution them never to evade a new experience. I would urge them to live life in the raw, to grapple with it bravely, to attack it with naked fists.'

- John Fante

'Time is not a line but a dimension, like the dimensions of space. If you can bend space you can bend time also, and if you knew enough and could move faster than light you could travel backward in time and exist in two places at once.'
- Margaret Atwood

I have been to the airport twice today. The first time as the sun was rising and the second with heavy drops of rain washing over the glass of my windscreen, the world rushing by dim and dreamlike. Airports are a strange no-man's land, a place of bent time and space. There is something affirming about them, change, I suppose. I associate them with a shift, a shift that lends itself to new horizons. The best stimulation is to experience a new environment, when you're taking it all in at a hundred miles an hour everything gains speed and lustre. It's peculiar that we remember the past and not the future. I'm glad that it is this way. The future retains its mystery, spontaneity, danger, risk - like driving fast in the rain, even if you slam on the breaks you're still going to drift across the asphalt without control. It's that loss of control that makes you feel anxious and you channel that anxiety into a pseudo high. High from not knowing what's round the next bend, and not caring so long as it's unpredictable and new and it keeps you drifting.

I felt sweet swinging bliss, like a big shot of heroine in the mainline vein; like a gulp of wine late in the afternoon and it makes you shudder; my feet tingled. I thought I was going to die the very next moment. But I didn't die and walked four miles and picked up ten long butt's, poured their tobacco into my old pipe and lit up. I was too young to know what had happened.
- Kerouac

To The One's You Will Never See Again,

To the fleeting one's, to the one's who came and went to fast, to the one's who left on tip toe, to the one's that went out without a bang! to the one's who left no foot prints and bared no shadows.

I saw you but you saw me first. You with wild hair and earthy shades walked on and stood in the middle, at the pelvis of the tram. You looked my way, no hesitation. Walked down my end, sat opposite me. I had my legs crossed tight, tracing fingers over the pattern on my stockings with a million thoughts about you running through my head. You - a stranger. And Me - already a slave to you. With the tenacity to sit and stare, open me up like the book you had resting on your thighs. I liked you already. Body language shook up the dust hovering in-between us, a long dense three minutes of silence, the kind of silence that sings. I stood to leave locking eyes and you smiled, sweet and fearless before vanishing into thin air - dust. I spent the rest of the day trying to hide a smile that hung heavy on my cheek, What If's slipping off the tips of my eyelids like warm rain. Other strangers passed, wondering, guessing what unknown pleasures lay clenched between my teeth and lip.

Secret show at a friends house that evolved into open mic, turns out there were some very haunting voices in the room.

Listen more here

photo story by Freya Esders

Arresting. is the word that comes to mind. When he is up there singing his song everything stops. If he were at the center of a clearing in the woods, the winds would cease - Mother Nature holding her breath. The room caves into the contours of his posture, the silence stops to listen. You're like a Buddhist submitting to the void. But more than that because your still feeling everything because he's feeling everything, feeling the vibrations on a higher frequency like those people who have that condition called 'Synesthesia' where you can see sound in colours and its like rainbows exploding in the room cause its loud even when he whispers. Especially when he whispers it feels loud, loud in the way that it has all your senses pricked and your eyes wet. Loud and fucking colorful.

'I felt like lying down by the side of the trail and remembering it all. The woods do that to you, they always look familiar, long lost, like the face of a long-dead relative, like an old dream, like a piece of forgotten song drifting across the water, most of all like golden eternities of past childhood or past manhood and all the living and the dying and the heart break that went on a million years ago and the clouds as they pass overhead seem to testify (by their own lonesome familiarity) to this feeling. Ecstasy, even, I felt, with flashes of sudden remembrance, and feeling sweaty and drowsy I felt like sleeping and dreaming in the grass.'
- Kerouac

What if each of the tiny lines on your fingertips stood for past lives. An eternity of past childhood's and past manhood's now forgotten, shrunk into patterns so you can carry them around like a map on your skin. If you could read the map would you change it this time round? or let it sink into the skin and learn your lessons, make your mistakes, forget your truths. That's the knack of retrospect, you can look back with a bird's eye view and feel omnipotent, feel that ecstasy, that tremendous sense of peace knowing that when you were at the edge - you leaped.

'The Edge...there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over'
- Hunter. S. Thompson

'Live in abandoned houses.
They have been lived in only by you.
If they come knocking at the door, write your last will and testament with the key.'
- Andre Breton