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Five O'Clock Shadow

Five o'clock tea, that pernicious, unprincipled and stomach-ruining habit.

7th Earl of Shaftesbury (1886)

No Sound, Just Silence

Each Day I Take a Piece of My Life and Put it in a Little Box...

For centuries, Hindus from across India and beyond have traveled to Varanasi to spend their last days in the 5,000-year-old city. They believe dying there will release them from the cycle of life, death and reincarnation -- and bring them salvation.

"Words fail to describe what I have seen while on this epic trip," filmmaker Aeyaz Hasn said. "This is my attempt to give you a sense of what it was like to experience the amazing 'Varanasi' and the mysterious vicious cycle of life and death."

The hauntingly beautiful scenes are paired with the poetic words of philosopher Alan Watts.

Kong

Becoming Myself...

Amsterdam

In the port of Amsterdam
There are sailors who sing
The dreams that haunt them
Off Amsterdam
In the port of Amsterdam
There are sailors who sleep
Like banners
Along the bleak banks
In the port of Amsterdam
There are sailors who die
Full of beer and drama
At the first light
But in the port of Amsterdam
There are sailors who are born
In the thick heat
Oceans
In the port of Amsterdam
There are sailors who eat
On too white tablecloths
Fish dripping
They show you teeth
To chew fortune
Decreasing the moon
To eat stays
And it smells like cod
To the heart of French fries
Let their big hands invite
Back to top
Then get up laughing
In a storm sound
Referment their fly
And go out
In the port of Amsterdam
There are sailors who dance
By rubbing the paunch
On the women's paunch
And they turn and they dance
Like split suns
In the torn sound
From a rancid accordion
They twist their neck
To better understand oneself laugh
Until suddenly
The accordion expires
Then the serious gesture
Then look proud
They bring back their battle
Up to full light
In the port of Amsterdam
There are sailors who drink
And who drink and reboivent
And who still reboot
They drink to health
Whores from Amsterdam
From Hamburg or elsewhere
Finally they drink the ladies
Who give them their pretty body
Who give them their virtue
For a gold coin
And when they drank well
Plant the nose in the sky
Blown in the stars
And they piss like I'm crying
About unfaithful women
In the port of Amsterdam
In the port of Amsterdam.

Fusions

Empty Pockets