photography

Eastern State Penitentiary by Rebecca Tillett

"Looking down these dreary passages, the dull repose and quiet that prevails, is awful. Occasionally, there is a drowsy sound from some lone weaver’s shuttle, or shoemaker’s last, but it is stifled by the thick walls and heavy dungeon-door, and only serves to make the general stillness more profound. Over the head and face of every prisoner who comes into this melancholy house, a black hood is drawn; and in this dark shroud, an emblem of the curtain dropped between him and the living world."

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Unfinished Prose, Edition 01 by Rebecca Tillett

Are all the heroes dead? Or just ours? Will the melodies ever sound the same, as somber and fixed in time as they are now? Will they stay? Because your voice, when you're playing Nutshell and humming Layne's voice on my parlor guitar, and I'm reminiscing over dreams I stopped having years ago; your voice and your fingers and everything else that I love. They stay in that way; reincarnated. I miss the dreams and am in love with the cause; a quandary, because I see things in dreams. Now I just feel like life stops when I sleep. Like death. In backness and nihility.

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You Wanted Her by Rebecca Tillett

You hadn’t looked at me in days. You hadn’t really seen me in years. You saw only the heavy black clouds enclosing me. You didn’t understand me. You didn’t want to. You wanted something easier. You wanted to believe you deserved better. You wanted someone smiling back at you from future days. You wanted to stop cranking your neck backward in hopelessness and exhaustion.

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And then a Woman by Rebecca Tillett

And then a woman appeared on the barren land, with seeds in her teeth, and each limb a root in search of earth to plant themselves. And then a woman appeared on the barren land, and not from the rib of any man, and not for his pleasure or to come to his aid, for without woman, there is no life, and there is no man.

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Bring it Down Like Rain by Rebecca Tillett

"Sometimes, when you’re asleep, I want to do it to myself while I’m watching you. It would be easy, two fingers along my clit, back, in, back out. Your skin’s heat comes into me, adjacent. Through the mussed chrysanthemum— petals, your big child’s sleep-face, closed around its openness, gives me your mouth to ground on, but only with my eyes. I could come like that, but I don’t—take you against your will, it seems like, and I wouldn’t; rather wait adores in sunlight, with this morning heat condensing, a soft cloud above my groin gently diffusing brightness there, until you wake up, and you bring it down like rain." —Marilyn Hacker

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