William Kim

A corpse of somebody who once was alive or maybe still is and have you ever been so near a person you could hear them swallow? Or seen castles vanishing in the sand time by time the more strangers pass by? I never tried to sit and watch theirs lives. However this main street to our hotel I passed daily when modelling the CELINE campaign SS20.

Now I’m nearing him; see beauty to my feet and hope in this situation. My hands touch his. I am moved, touched, alive. Are you (?) I gently push your heavy corpse. You must be heavier than me, I think. Then I say it aloud bc I don’t want to keep secrets from you. You make a sound or is it my imagination? I’m not sure what I feel but now the touch which at very first felt mysteriously sacred somewhat untouchable turns to feel trusted, deep, rooted, right. My hand is at the right place and we succeed moving towards motion. Now I can clearly see your fingers moving. 

Am grateful tho all I wish is you to be gone, gone somewhere else, far from here

8 October 2019 at 08:17 AM iPhone note:
I awake wrapped in the inside warmth tormented by the cold of the nighty oceans breeze. Bone shivering cold as an abyss of a frosty breath floating my bodies landscape. Facing futures. 8:17 AM alone and awake. I spend a while watching waves reminded of Virginia. I solace myself saying my fingers are to stiff to govern a pen and I write down nothing into my notebook before I palpate the coastline like a dead-alive dog in search of a bone. I stumble upon my feet and obstacles of life: Steps soar into the sky and dissolve in cloudy syllables. Words become waves become words become vague become intangibly vague and the nebulosity of moving mirror sky is reflected infinitely onto my otiosity tailing along the ocean. I am a dead dogs stiff tail and yet no sight of a bone. I upload an insta story in need, sound on, chattering of teeth substantiating the cold inhabiting the air space between my feet. Dead dogs are dead only when none speaks about them.

8 October 2019 at 08:12 AM iPhone note:
To touch something, that something touched will be touching as well. I lay down on the street and the street touches me. I feel attached to the street likewise detached from everything I am. The hollow zero becomes a circle and I am filled with all nothingness, losing myself in the otherness of that nothingness. My inner self entangled. Touching transforms, always.

8 October 2019 at 08:47 AM
for somebody else it is just another body, another one in a sleeping bag. i am asleep on the sand, skin so thin like soap bobbles flying. i transcend. i see my own silhouette ots in between the others. transparent cities, transparent lives. my bones pale and fragile from the missing light, my skin see- trough. like a greenish grape, you can look trough me, right into my core to count the seeds. wisdom grown from vulnerability. the night is a fragile phase, i see myself soft like a grape. soap bobbles, light, colors are tempting and a fly keeps on flying.