I am living in another country now, I speak another language and have completely different habits. However, one day in the summer when I was making lunch, watching life unfold through the houses scattered on the surrounding hills through my kitchen windows from the corner of my eye, It all came back to me in the shortest time. That circular movement of my hand stirring the shrimp in a pan in melted butter… involuntarily it’s all coming back to me. I can hear you on the other side of the door, I can hear you coming home.

Standing above the stove, one hand on the pan one hand on the spoon, cigarette hanging from in between my lips - passively smoking as usual, and I already knew every little thing that happens on the other side of the door. The same routine as always only now it took me by surprise. The two firm movements of the key and a third final one. The sound of your shoes dropping by the door and the sweet tobacco smell. 

It’s hot and the cooking is making it even more unbearable. I can feel pearls of sweat rolling down from my forehead curving over my eyebrow ridge quickly over and under my eyelid and over my cheek onto my chin then so much slower, glacially over my neck to my clavicle and through my shirt. I can smell the tobacco all the way to the kitchen now. The neighbor's black cat asleep on the window sill of the first floor across the street. I can hear the drop of your keys in their usual spot.

But it was all a dream. The keys, the shoes, the door, me still wanting to call you now, years after you’ve gone - phantom limb. The linearity of existence was pulled up and down, it was skewed, it was ultimately fucked up. The line, straight or sinusoidal, in its orthogonal projection it is actually a crack. A division between then and now, here and there, this and that. Two continents of skin and an ocean of darkness between them. Tectonic plates that separate in heavy and slow movement. It's a split, and splits are awful. Just by definition it sounds painful: a tear, crack, or fissure in something, especially down the middle or along the grain. A surprise shot of void. Like when you take the carpet knife and slit your arm open. 

1. Baptiste Radufe by Paul Morel,  Hunter magazine.

Paul Mason by Calope.

2. Raf Simons by Willy Vanderperre.

3.

4. Flint Louis by Darren Black.

5. Adrien Sahores by Thomas Goldblum
Hercules Magazine.

6.

7. Cyril by Renaud Duc.

8. Kris Kidd for Jessee Draxler.

9. Roberto Bolle by Andreas Larsson
Fantastic Man.

10. Roy Halston by Jean Barthet.

11. A.P.C. vs. Acne biker jacket

12. Luca Fixy by Magdalena Lawniczak.

13. Bill Skarsgård by Hedi Slimane
Hero Magazine

Artur Churszcz and Piero Mendez by Matthew Stone for Neil Barrett.

14. Maxence Danet-Fauvel by Brent Chua

15. Photo by Jerome Sussiau

Text 1. Marcel Proust - In Search of Lost Time, Swann’s Way.

Text 2. The Time Machine of Consciousness. - Past Present Future Exist Simultaneously by
Rhawn Gabriel Joseph
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