Through the darkness of future past
The magician longs to see
One chance out between two worlds
Yeah this is me having 0% idea what I’m doing with my existence, ‘sup

Pulp Fiction (1994)
dir. Quentin Tarantino

“Bi-Faced No. 5” by Sebastian Bieniek, 11.06.2014. From the serial of photographs “Bi-Faced”.


Sylvia Plath R.I.P

I have done it again.One year in every tenI manage it–
A sort of walking miracle, my skinBright as a Nazi lampshade,My right foot
A paperweight,My face featureless, fineJew linen.
Peel off the napkinO my enemy.Do I terrify?–
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?The sour breathWill vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the fleshThe grave cave ate will beAt home on me
And I a smiling woman.I am only thirty.And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three.What a trashTo annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments.The peanut-crunching crowdShoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot–The big strip tease.Gentlemen, ladies
These are my handsMy knees.I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.The first time it happened I was ten.It was an accident.
The second time I meantTo last it out and not come back at all.I rocked shut
As a seashell.They had to call and callAnd pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
DyingIs an art, like everything else.I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.I do it so it feels real.I guess you could say I’ve a call.
It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.It’s the theatrical
Comeback in broad dayTo the same place, the same face, the same bruteAmused shout:
‘A miracle!’That knocks me out.There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a chargeFor the hearing of my heart–It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large chargeFor a word or a touchOr a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.So, so, Herr Doktor.So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus,I am your valuable,The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek.I turn and burn.Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash–You poke and stir.Flesh, bone, there is nothing there–
A cake of soap,A wedding ring,A gold filling.
Herr god, Herr LuciferBewareBeware.
Out of the ashI rise with my red hairAnd I eat men like air.

– Sylvia Plath, Lady Lazarus

Jing Huang

Nightbreed, 1990

"Glitoris triptych, panel 2" Julian Baker August 2011 From the triptychs series
For some reason Tumblr removed this image, so here it is again.