She’s been rummaging again. The Housekeeper, that is. Pulled from all corners of the house – the attic, the pantry, the drawer that always sticks, these are the oddities she deemed worthy of the light.
Not the loudest, not the newest, but the ones that linger. She doesn’t explain her choices. She simply leaves them here, dusted and waiting.

We’re still tethered to Halloween’s shadow, holding onto the last scraps of darkness before before December’s glitter seeps into the foundations and mingles with the dust. Call it denial – or just good taste before the season turns obnoxiously bright.

In my procrastination quest to avoid committing 80+ hours of my life to Death Stranding 2, I accidentally stumbled into a 4-hour existential crisis.

London isn’t short on cemeteries. With around 85,000 deaths recorded in the capital each year, we all have to end up somewhere. And yet, in a city founded nearly 2,000 years ago, burial space is running out.

There’s nothing more beautiful than a bookshelf filled with stories, and nothing more haunting than one where the covers all speak as one.

Crooked lines, pale faces, and a kind of melancholy that feels oddly comforting. Like many, his worlds have always felt familiar to me. Instantly recognizable, and comforting in the most macabre way.

Once a grand entrance for first-class passengers arriving to visit the relocated Crystal Palace, this subterranean vestibule now stands as a poetic echo of a vanished era.

“The beauty and the brutal, the macabre and the romantic, life and death – is at the core of my practice.” – Gary James McQueen

I’ve been trying to pinpoint the exact moment I realised I was ‘into’ things other people just weren’t. Two obscure fascinations spring to mind