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Phillipe Chatelain Spencer Thompson Ian Knowles Meagan Drillinger Nader Lakkis Ilana Strauss Maura Newell Bartees Cox Frederick Ramirez Astrid Floristeanu Tracy Ren Laura Short Josef Ehntholt Brendan Pailet Jessica Gawrych Hana Tarek Maria Dorothy Huynh Shea Garner Soumar Ali Andra Huidu & Adeona

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Eugene Hayman* / Daria Petcu Hazel Encarnaci贸n Gabi Hastings Will Thomas Maria Magdalena van Wyk* / Elena Barrio Morgan Braaten Kirby Salvador Chad Miller Sam Taylor Andrea Vel谩zquez Melissa Cetlin Joshua Orr Steph Boyle Cristina Jayo Stuart Miller Aviva Oskow Patrick Latimer* / Rob Romano Thomas Hentz

Produced By: The Wepartist Village *In collaboration with KIN Shop

good sense yeah sure you’re standing there and just ash right into my cup its not like i was drinking that still its fine it tastes good or at least the same nice on the beat move like i got flight from the feet it leads me as you do, by the hand toward glorious light the sigh of exhaustion the fleeting moment we spin like the record scratch spin like we’re trying to reverse the earth we tumble into each other its fine it feels good its chilly but we ash into the night don’t hate the smell, it’ll be gone in the morning (like each of us left not yet gone) losing your place it’s fine it smells good but spill and we flow like liquid metal oozing on fizzling bubbling need napkin, a stain won’t dry neat like a scab on fabric its fine it looks good sliver lick from a silver liver as body’s rapid quiver numbly piercing sensation a bite of red and mine the tangy pain your moan its fine it sounds good a moan by any other name roses bloom on flesh


Someone forgettable once told me, “If you want your words to carry weight, say less of them” Someone else once told me, “There are two types of people in this world” And an old man on the bus once told me, “We should have never invented ceilings, they’re a symbol fear” And whoever says, “Let sleeping dogs lie” Will always have scars. Are we enlightened or just satisfied? Because the Internet is no place for bumper stickers And the authors are often misquoted And an identity is not for personal use And God is not a concept that you can just wrestle to the ground. And an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Attention is a currency We love our own reverberations. That is, until it reaches excess Then the sounds run together And we can’t hear ourselves anymore Because “too much of a good thing can make you sick” But here’s the thing about everything: We always hope it could really be that simple And we will never know if it is. And I wouldn’t take my word for it either.



She found herself thinking. But did she? The same cognitive banter that got her where she is… Could also get her out? She needs out! This is not a joke

There is vitality somewhere. But where? Guaranteed it’s somewhere. But so few people have it. She is alone. How does she begin the search for it with any sort of accurate direction? No one knows. If you ask, they say… its under a rock, in the woods. What rock? What woods? She might as well seek nothing.

Now. She can’t listen, it is not the answer They are asleep, they don’t know What does she seek? What will make her feel whole? Where is her source? Its not here Her eyes are closed She has lost track of time She has questions but no answers She is losing control

Who am I? Who are they? Am I real? To who? What’s the point? Where I am I? WHY!? WHERE IS IT!? I NEED IT! WHAT IS IT!? Her eyes are closed WHERE IS IT!!!!????? She calms down FUCK. She is shackled in an unfamiliar place she thought she knew GET ME OUT! Where does she begin to find it? FIND WHAT!? Her eyes are closed Someone speaks She is consumed, she listens Her eyes open, she is free.


“It is you, you are It”

Fuck Your Fears Being naked gets a bad rap. It’s met with visceral, often uncomfortable, reactions: insecurity, doubt, pressure, judgment, intrigue, lust. Yes, it is uncomfortable, but only because we think being naked has to be about other people. Spoiler alert: It doesn’t. New York comes with its own set of special neuroses. A careful blend of insecurity and social anxiety mixed with an overwhelming need to fit in and stand out all at the same time. As a woman, be sure to throw in a heavy pour of fat fear for a truly exhausting elixir. Abs, arms, ass...even a thigh gap is under heavy scrutiny. Being naked, and being happy with what you see, is trying, depressing, often enraging. So much so that at some point you just want to fuck it all. So that’s what I did. I literally fucked it all - in public. I became introduced to the secret world of New York City sex clubs by chance doing research for an article. I got the assignment and nervous laughter ensued. I can’t get undressed in a gym locker room without it being empty. Even with sex, arguably one of the more intimate things you can do with someone else (arguably), I’d get dressed immediately after. And now you want me to do what? But I went. I had to. This wasn’t about an assignment, or sex. This was about me. Soon I found myself gaping at a melange of naked flesh, a clamor of lusty cries...hands, lips and mouths searching in dimly lit spaces. I was terrified. I was turned on. I couldn’t look away. Now or never. So up and over my head went my little black dress. And then there I was. Naked. I led my date deep into the den of depravity to join the feral fray. Splayed out and naked for all to see I felt free, alive, safe...dare I say it, sexy? Naked never felt so good. That feeling gets under your exposed skin. You just had sex in public. It was awesome. What can you do now? What’s next? Bring on the fear. Turns out all you need to do to conquer it, is fuck it.


It happens after love. An evil metal-clawed hand reaches into your chest and slowly pulls your heart out. Hearts are wild creatures incarcerated by the cages of our ribs. Here, however, the beast is slain. It is carved into grief and animosity that bend its cell bars as it is dragged out. Here, the delusion of joy, hope, and free will is amputated. Replaced by a ferocious flame that burns blue with anguish, and crimson with desperation and frustration. Melancholy is all throughout. The beast is then sluggishly pushed back into its place, tied by chains of hopelessness that will enslave it until the end of time. The wound is then sewn shut, but not without leaving a scar. Not on your lifeless chest for people to see, but in your mind for only you to ever know. A scar that will forever control you and alter the very person you are. The beautiful lie that used to so softly kiss you is now the truth that suppresses you. Little imps somewhere in hell now dance victorious. Welcome to your awakening. Don’t expect to leave any time soon.

Former Grand Dutchess Anastasia Nikolaevna at the Stephen A. Schwarzman Library The palace on Forty-Second Street Emerges from the ground like a crystal balloon. An elephant could march up its spiral staircases Without snagging its ears on mammoth chandeliers. I used to live in halls like these. I squint at the ceiling’s swirling gardens, and remember when lace and gold weren’t superfluous. When I didn’t chop away the flowers Because I only needed the leaves. I could say it’s crazy to build a marble library while a coughing homeless man rests his cardboard sign on his wheelchair across the street. But that’s not how I feel today. I’m not my drifting plastic bag streets Or my geometric office furniture. And he is not his wheelchair.


The room was dark. The only light projected from the glowing television he was fixated on. I entered quietly, and I snuggled up next to him on the couch. I followed his lead, directing my gaze towards the show he had turned on. My eyes stayed static on the screen as my mind began to meander. Even though we sat skins touching, I could feel the growing ocean between us. We found ourselves trapped in a cyclic riptide, giving way to the powerful tides pulling us together and ripping us apart. Time and time again, we had been able to swim back to each other, but before long, we would find ourselves stranded in the same body of water. I was worn out and hoped for an event that would save us. Maybe the current would shift; maybe someone would throw us a lifeline. Until that event occurred, I would continue to tread water with him, for I feared that if I lost complete sight of him that he would be swallowed up by the sea of his own internal demons. My mind returned to land. I turned away from the TV to observe his illuminated profile. As I watched him, I couldn’t help but admire his striking features. He smelled like soap and his ebony hair was still damp from our shower. His messy locks twirled the flecks of florescent light that were flashing from the screen. My hand drifted up. My fingertips began to delicately weave with the reflections and wet strands on his head. A few moments later, he finally spoke. “Stop,” he commanded. He reached up to push my hand down without breaking eye contact with the television. I kept a calm facade as I felt a cold heaviness begin to pull me under. I could not tread water with him anymore. I had been trying to grasp ahold of any glimmer of hope, but with that one word and movement of his hand, he had tied an anchor to me. I knew he was going to ensure that it would be an excruciating drag down towards the black bottom. A wave of realization had crashed down upon me— we were going to sink, but I was going to have to fight like hell to keep myself from drowning with him.


Between the lost days and those which are to come Lies another tedious reflection, Through which a lost soul with not one home Tries to renounce any and all affliction. The mockery of howling memories Is what I can’t forget“The day is stolen by a pitiless Death Is what you, my loving child, mustn’t regret.” The burning sunbeams that seep in through the cracks, The invigorating wind that caresses my face Beg me not to forget the laughs life lacks, And seek the joy I am ready to embrace. Thus through my anguish, my suffering, my misery I’ve come to realize I shall never fully awaken

Astrid Floristeanu

Without letting wailing memories become forsaken.


Baja Tacos Baja tacos, Baja Cali, Baja what? Driving down a dusty road— potholes slam against old Volvo wheels. The desert expands far beyond us and always ends at the sea.

Baja man is the driver, I am waking up, Hummingbird, bright sun

Small world, big world, what world? The only relevant time and place is the new Mexican summer, gently pulling me across the black, steady road past small cactus, big cactus, flower cactus—the sun starts to set, we swim through the dry, ever-alive wonder world to meet Cortez.

I was a fool but when the world is at my door I was always step out

Whale-bone bench by the calm sea at the Bay of the Angels. The night crawls up the opposite horizon and the air turns cold. A dreamless sleep and I awake, knowing. Red sky, purple sky, cloudy sky, I’ve found the end of skies—turning back now. Baja tacos on the menu. Urban winter laughs, stale tortilla.


Baja tacos, Baja Cali, Baja what?

vant time le e r ly n o The and place

tly gen

ing pull

ross c a e


the black, ste

ady road

Baja man is the driver, I am waking up,

is the n

ew Me xican s

Baja tacos on n winter the menu. Urba illa. laughs, stale tort

ummer ,

imagine for a moment a whiplash and interstellar mash up, in which both mcconaughey and simmons smash up poor miles tellers’ face and your concept of time and space. am I rushing or am I dragging? SLAP! Is space expanding or is time lagging? clap clap clap


She said she loved me, but all we ever did was fuck or fight. I now look back on all three activities with a haze. At what point do memories become open to perception? When do we decide to alter the details— remember things in a different way, or augment certain terrors? When I recite back that period of my life, my time with you, it’s akin to trying to describe a dream the morning after. The dimethyltriptamine drains from your brain as you pull out of the high, and you find it more and more difficult to remember certain things. Details like– Why did we stay in this when we were miserable? What led to us arguing that one time? and my favorite one, Was I the one who caused the problem? I’m just glad that someone woke me when it was over.

Overview Effect surrounded by stars while searching for mars, i look back to see where i came from. an earth so blue suspended in space hanging in the cosmos with grace. i’m more than out of place, borders and states seem erased from afar, the world comes undone. the countries i once knew fade with the overview, and the earth is made new. my planet is your planet. my planet is your planet. we share a planet. it is our planet. suspended in space, hanging in the cosmos with grace. my mind displaced: i see where i came from, that place so blue i hail to a new dawn drawn from the view.


As seconds flow over we open our eyes of the fore

This is a word com indisputably, to a garment and


the trophy of eternity, to the realization existence of ver.

monly hand-down; be worn as of security trust.


I felt a small nudge on my shoulder. It was a balmy spring midday in March and I was still asleep. The sun shone brightly and reflected off my face. I kept my eyes shut and hoped that the nuisance would leave me be. Yet, the pushes and prods continued. Rolling over in bed I pulled my blanket, the Pacific Ocean, with me. I opened one eye as the swaying continued and the brilliance of the sun sent me back for a moment to my dark hiding place. The strong smell of fresh fish drowned in salt became stronger as I became more aware of my surroundings. So, with my nose aflame I finally awoke, a tall wall of water growing taller by the second. For a short moment, I stood silent, my feet cold on the ocean floor. Then, roused by a single extra push, I spilled over roaring. My small, childish hands spread in front of my like ripples. Flailing my feet behind me, I kicked at the floor. Yelling again, I demanded to see the culprit who had so rudely forced me to wake. But, no one was to be seen. The ocean spread around me empty but for a few sea creatures. Irritation spilling over and collapsing back into my waters, I vindictively sent fish flying. Biting my lip and tasting salty tears of frustration, I barrelled forwards towards the land. I dove towards it at speeds I had never experienced before. Soon, I found myself within a few paces of the Japanese shores the ocean had deserted moments ago. My wails were now reciprocated by those of tiny sirens and even tinier people. They scurried about like ants. The toy cars and model houses lay cheerfully ahead of me. I looked on amused at the scene playing out before me and found myself pulled towards it. All thoughts of my mysterious pest faded from my mind. And with that, I tumbled into the playground. I was immediately in a wondrous new world. Pushing and steering millions of small cars, thousands of models, and exploring the rooms of concrete jungles. I was enthralled. The excited squeals of children followed me wherever I went, calling my name, “Tsunami�. They became strangely quiet as I passed. I had never been so popular before. Then, as I reflected for a moment on the good fortune that someone had woken me up today, I stepped on a building. Pain seared through my foot like when one steps on a lego block. I stumbled a little and with the irritation that comes with such an incident, I lashed out carelessly hitting the other concrete structure. This building was different. As waves passed through it I had a slightly sickening feeling. The radiation coursed through my veins but, soon it was diluted enough for me to ignore. I enjoyed my surroundings a while longer and, then, tiring with the activities, I decided to return home. Returned sleepiness combined with the urge to play longer made me slow my return. Even so, soon I was back in bed, under the surface of the water. As I retreated, I never turned back to see the gnarled roots of the ancient pines and the disemboweled houses. And as I slept as peacefully as a baby, my plump cheeks glistening in the sunlight, the world I had left moaned in horror at the trail of radiation, death and suffering which I left behind.



roused single by a

Spilled over




The Brightness of Your Heart Its amazing how fast it can happen. Like a jolt of electricity straight to your heart, instantly waking up your soul, love is intense. Nothing in this world can open up your mind and make you more aware of what's around you in the same capacity. There is enough darkness in this world. I dare you to fall in love with yourself, the people around you and the work you do. Let it be the guiding light illuminating the beauty and potential of all that surrounds you. Little by little you can change the world with the brightness of your heart.

Portobello Bombay I had caught you after work. You were wearing the turquoise pendant fitted tightly around your olive neck. You woke up early and I woke up alone. Walking through the antique store, you held up a pair of brown boxing gloves. “Look here,” you said, eyeing me enthusiastically, as if you were holding gold. Dusty and red, I pondered their age. Who had they pummeled and how did they get here? You look at me and shake your head. “What do you think about?” you ask. Later, I ordered three drinks at the bar as we waited for the table with your back against the post. You had been at work all day and I sat on the bare chairs with nothing.


Long ago, during The Age of Myths, it was said that every man lived only once. Perhaps. But some might say our mind is shared between two lives. One for when we are conscious. And one for when we are deep inside the mysterious hallways of our unforeseeable hallucinations. Neither knows the other side nor cares to look. For they are quite dissimilar; different versions of a very elaborate story. A story, which some say is no different than a dream, however long and boringly detailed. Then... are we ever really awake? In some fables, until we choose to not only acknowledge the unknown, but to embrace it as well, will we be able to even relate to the feeling of being awake. However, wiser men say we should best leave this box untouched, for its contents could drive even the sanest men mad. I disagree; men were made to go mad – especially the sane ones.


The voice of the jungle is seductive. It is inviting a tiny soul into the middle of nowhere, where a spot of light covers a marvelous liana. The only entity observed in the vast surroundings and abysses of solitude is this. Whispering, ceasing, clamouring, rustling, and murmuring are the poignant sounds made by the ivy, nettles, beeches, and creepers. The process of life is assimilated with the cycle of plant growth. Chronologically, characteristics appear day by day as the plant and the baby develop; so, in order to achieve more experience in both lives, time is needed. Slowly and slowly the plant rises with the baby girl in her tendrils, hugging her as tightly as possible. The petals are offering protection while she is lying gracefully on the stigma. However, she meets different changes, light intensity and temperature, which can affect its maturity. She adapts to them and she becomes stronger physically and emotionally, like a diamond that cannot be broken. She over-thinks too much and mazes of inward contemplation prosper. As the plant upgrades to maturity, the girl reaches reality. The world is like a jungle; you either fight or run forever.


wake up, we’re here.

La Libreta // Vol 02 // Awakening  
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