Life’s Cold Cubicle Must Melt By Noon On Friday

As silent snowflakes drifted down from blunted tips of skyscrapers, all was quiet inside 860 Broadway.

The brick-lined building contained a handful of heads bent toward glowing screens, crooked necks testament to their owners’ devotion in this collective ennui as muted minds drifted away to the grey sky.

A hush had settled in on the top story of that heavy building on Broadway. Only a persistent high pitched hum could be heard; it had begun to seep into their brains and it clung to the edges of every head, consuming the empty air with its relentless ringing.

It followed them down subway vents and into train cars, piercing their ears as they glided across icy sidewalks and even crept into their beds at night while they slept.

The ominous hum grew until it subsumed their minds the way darkness devours the sight of a man that’s spent too long in a red car with the motor running and the windows closed. It begins with a tiny black spark, then chips away at the light until awareness evaporates.

The building dwellers turned their heads to the sky and imagined the vast swath of icy desks splintering, the quiet air crumbling, ennui falling to its knees and the hum becoming a distant memory as Friday rolls in, the sun presses from behind clouds and the snow stops falling.


Liberté de Penser


A video I put together to The Future, Wouldn’t That be Nice? by The Books. Most of this was video footage I had on my phone already and just threw together in an attempt to fit the song.

A myth about staying warm in Michigan

She couldn’t remember when it had become detached. Her arm had hung there for a very long time, below her shoulder. Her hand had been connected to the end of it. Freckles here and there dotted the pink horizon of her skin. Demeter didn’t know exactly what they meant at the time, but they were patterned, they had structure. Now, she felt incomplete, a fraction of a whole.

It’s funny how everything can fit together so well, and then one day, your arm goes missing. Demeter shrugged the snow off her face and started to walk. It was too cold to cry, her tears would become icicles and hang like daggers from her eyes.

Then, in the distance she saw a yellow dog.

Its tail was made of cotton candy and tongue hanged out red, a lollypop, fur glistening against the glazed morning ground.

“I’m incomplete! Please, can you help?” The dog just shrugged his shoulders and began whistling a song. “Dog! Can’t you see this is urgent? I’m missing my arm.” He turned to her and smiled, “I don’t have a friend.”

They turned to the West, where the sun began blinking at them from the behind the trees. It was cold and uglier than usual. Demeter grew to hate it. She wanted the warm, yellow sun she remembered from her dreams. Not this cold, blue orb that was mocking her from behind its pulpit. “I’ll be your friend.” She laughed. “Here, share my porridge and fish.”

This time he stared thoughtfully at the ground. He licked his feet and buried his head in the snow. He looked at her with new eyes. He started whistling a different tune. Right away she felt warmer.

The tears began to stream from her eyes and down her body. They flooded the ground and poured down the valley to the indigo lake. Huge waves of tears swallowed up the snow and ice. They pushed the sun up to the top of the sky and it bobbed there, growing warmer.

The trees began to grow tall and fat.

Demeter noticed a tiny piece of wood below her shoulder. It grew longer and became a branch. The branch grew every day for a hundred years until it was gnarled and mossy. She never doubted the dog again and they were best friends until the very end.