Sunday, February 28, 2010

Los humanos tenemos una infinita capacidad de ignorar el dolor ajeno.


















Twofold Vision












The Brothers Are Gonna Work It Out...
(They did...)


















Wardrobe

Saturday, February 27, 2010

"I am also struggling against my modernist training for constant improvement, advancement, development, and accumulation. Slowly I am learning the pleasures of relinquishing the desire to gain control of all that surrounds me."

KENNETH GERGEN
"The practice of education is the highest form of intellectual philanthropy"

MAEDA












Ring












Ewunia


















I.A.N.

Friday, February 26, 2010

"When in doubt, just remove"

MAEDA














Mr. Handscombe












Furtive Cigarette
















Flying Bird

Thursday, February 25, 2010

One's beliefs are to suit one's most distorted desires and fantasies...


















Gateway


















Sunshine









On One's Feet

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Sunday, February 21, 2010

"Glitch as the beauty of malfunction"

TORBEN SANGILD


















Afternoon The light














Mousa














Bulb
"more consumption-oriented visitors want directions."

MAX BRUINSMA













Warmify














Mexico And Its Colours












Skies
"Some never participate. Life happens to them. They get by on little more than dumb persistence and resist with anger or violence all things that might lift them out of resentment-filled illusions of security."

FRANK HERBERT

Saturday, February 20, 2010










Blinds














Bloody Clown II
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Bloody Clown
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Lift it!
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Porthole
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Distant Frame VII
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Distant Frame VI
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Distant Frame V
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Distant Frame IV
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Distant Frame III
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Friday, February 19, 2010

HARD TO FIND By Joel Lane

Sound is a bastard to work with.
It's too human. The severed chords
fall in the image of believers, those
defined by their needs. An audience,
an obsessive lover, the blind unborn.

It's not a style. Muttered words,
violent guitars; you only raise
your voice when screaming. Now
you've pieced together the mirror,
but the image is still broken.

Mind. The white noise of pain
reduces you to an echo, your trace
preserved in the mix. The last sound
you hear is not a human voice.
They'll suck the hole in your head

to feed their loss. A child cries.
Nothing is transformed. All this week,
the rain tastes bitter and the sky
itches, trying to close itself up.
Your silence will go platinum.














Distant Frame II
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Distant Frame
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Back On It...
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