'edgar

New York-based creative studio Obvious State uses text from famous authors, philosophers, and thinkers as a springboard for clever illustration. For their latest project, they’ve designed a series of letterpress-printed posters inspired by witticisms from T.S. Eliot, Virginia Woolf, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Oscar Wilde, and more. Back the project for your own work of literary art here.

[His IC reading from a small story/poetry gathering on 5/28/17.  Poem is Alone by Edgar Allan Poe]

Slowly he walks up onto the stage, one tall black candle lit and held aloft in both his hands before him.  A dried black rose sits nestled in his hair, seeming a relic from long ago that should crumble to dust at the slightest touch.  His face is oddly somber and illuminated by the flickering candlelight as he casts a strangely glowing gaze across the assembled crowd.  Whether it is the candlelight or something more remains uncertain as he begins to speak quietly. 

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—

Slowly he moved his left hand from the candle, bearing it only in his right as he spread his arms in a wide gesture.  His movements were slow, ensuring the flame wavered and flickered but did not go out as he continued, an odd unearthly cadence and tone to his voice.  An almost hint of an echo or duality. 

From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—

His left hand raised, long nailed fingers wrapped around the fragile rose in his hair.  Those closer could see the petals begin to crack and crumble as he tugged it free.  The hand with the candle, now bearing the trails of wax as it burned, stayed out to the far side of him as he raised the removed rose aloft before his stationary form as if an offering. 

Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—

The hand holding the rose lowered as the one bearing the candle moved forward again slowly.  His gaze turned to the brittle flower in his grasp.  Fragile, breakable…like so many other things in this world.  His lips curled into a strange sad smile as he continued. 

From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—

The hand holding the flower closed tightly as he paused momentarily.  The petals crumbled and crushed beneath his pale fingers as he closed his eyes slowly.  He moved the candle up, closer now to his mouth between the hand holding the now ruined flower petals and his mouth as he finished. 

From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—

Without opening his eyes he blew the candle out, the breath scattering the rose petals into the air as he fell silent.  He paused, standing still for a moment longer before lowering his hands, one bearing the last remnants of the rose and the other with wax trails and dots along pale flesh.  A small dip of his head was given as he opened his eyes and walked off the stage toward his previous seat with nothing more offered. 

The cost of an emotion

Everyone always says
That the smile you give a stranger
Costs you nothing.
A few kind words to someone
Who is looking kinda down
Costs you nothing.

Well, my dear friends,
I’ve been thinking about this.

I try to give smiles
To the people who need it most.
I try to say hello
To the people who crave it most.
I try to say thank you
For every good deed that is done.

But it has become too much.
It has
Become
Too
Much.

My mask is slipping.
My façade is cracking.
My script is almost up.

Every night I sit alone
Staring up and the ceiling
And thinking.
Thinking about everything
That I could have done.
Thinking about everything
That I want to do.
Thinking about everything
That nobody has done for me.

There are people, yes,
Who will offer these small things
To me.
Do not be so quick to pipe up
With the silly follies of empty
Hallway smiles that were exchanged
Months and months ago.

I speak of people
Who offer the constant
Reassurance that I am,
In fact,
Not alone.
I speak of people
Whom I bother constantly
With nonsensical tales
And demands for attention.

I speak of people
Whom I think about.
Whom I wonder about.
I wonder about how taxing it is
For them
To be constantly entertaining me.

And I hope the tax is worth it.

Because every bit of energy I spend on them,
Is energy well spent in my eyes.

CeK // 11;22 pm

PART 2 OF BABY EGOS! And they love dress up!

Part 1: http://that-one-pizza.tumblr.com/post/161132934953/baby-egos-ill-do-the-rest-i-ran-out-of-room

Ed Edgar is all cowboyed up!

Bim Trimmer wants the rest to play his game
“Guys, come pway (play) my game…” 
(Also the suit’s too big for him)

Silver Shepherd and King of the Squirrels both want the cape

Dr. Iplier thinks bandaids can cure The Host’s eyes. Some say Iplier’s first words were “you’re dying”…
“Sowwy (sorry), you'we (you’re) dying… I hewp (help)!
@markiplier