Crawled into the colossal amphitheater of ALICE at the LHC. It was an otherworldly space, a silent cathedral of science.

"Château Wanton," a luxury streetwear brand founded by Jonathan Shaun

 The perpetual hustle of adrenaline, the hollow hunger for the next fix, the absurd hubris that convinced me I could outrun gravity.

“I’ve been dying since they traded my name for a ring,” she said, voice low as spilled wine.

She whispered, “Before you become a ghost above your corpse?” Her words twisted like a knife. I saw my reflection—a broken animal begging. She kissed my ear, lips slick with her poison: scorched earth, lavender,...

She slid off me, harvested sweat and saliva like fallen-angel nectar, flicked her Frankenstein cigarette into the leaves, and sparked a tiny inferno: final punctuation on our apocalypse.

I slammed into her one final time, body arching against her thighs, raw power and desperation hybridized into one frenzied release. My seed erupted inside her, hot and harsh, and she followed seconds later, her...

The wallpaper peeled like a scab, the mattress groaned like an accomplice, and the air reeked of sweat, lube, and ideological decay.

a half-eaten peach and erotic pictures of her with other men. The air was saturated with it: burnt resin, heat-split citrus, old sex, and the faint stench of dollar-store candles pretending to be sandalwood.

And if you’re reading this wondering how it all ends, here’s the rub: it doesn’t. Not for girls with guns and ghosts between their legs. Not for bastards like me, still chasing the next story down a...

You caught the faint trace of whiskey that wafted from a half-hidden flask stashed in her cleavage, something old, something that had lingered too long in barrels and regrets.

“I came inside someone else’s pleasure and felt my soul roll its hips again". The Archivist’s Final Entry