🔪 auteur hex girl 🔪
~ vhs zoomer, no taste but bad taste, wkw's goth wife ~
💔 anarcho-gorewhore, graveyard girl 💔
A voice is tapping at my cabin door. Carnivorously unexplained and unnamed, yet still carrying the ethos of the wendigo as an indigenous omen and a source of unreckonable danger, not expanding across countries but also across states of living, spanning galactic bodies and cultures (un)known. Somehow further ~and~ closer than many other movies are to the mythos of it all, wearing the visage of what we foolishly think is the natural world. It feels as dark as it looks.
P.S. the Not Deer is my husband, leave him alone.
The party's over. The Circus, as an idea, is a trauma breeding ground at the working class level; children, creatures, entire states of being that are sold as punching bags to masses, and whatever this paint-patted ~thing~ is saying, it speaks through a lifetime's worth of wearing a face for the spotlight. Abused for audiences, more Entertainer than Human, left to grow with a Rexian complex and blood to spill. Tonic brewed with P.T. Barnum-tier grotesque. To perform is to grieve. Men will really seek an illusion before they seek therapy.