Tektonik’s back on April 24 @ Black Market! #teaser

Q

Anonymous asked:

Why is Starwars better than Star Trek?:p

A

The easy answer is that it isn’t better than Star Trek. Haha! Hi Daniel! :)

Tektonik @ Black Market! Had so much fun working on this poster, haha. Feb. 27! Facebook event page here: https://www.facebook.com/events/697986403554944/

Teaser poster for Black Market event Tektonik! Mark your calendar, guys! Feb. 27! Also made the actual poster, which will be released later on.

Made a poster for Tektonik! If you guys are free on Dec 5, drop by Black Market in Makati for some great music. :) 

A release; an exhale; the continuation of a heartbeat
1. This (pain) will linger.
2. It’s not about forgetting; it’s about the desire to be free from despair.
My two pieces for Bloom Arts Festival this year. A release; an exhale; the continuation of a heartbeat
1. This (pain) will linger.
2. It’s not about forgetting; it’s about the desire to be free from despair.
My two pieces for Bloom Arts Festival this year.

A release; an exhale; the continuation of a heartbeat

1. This (pain) will linger.

2. It’s not about forgetting; it’s about the desire to be free from despair.

My two pieces for Bloom Arts Festival this year.

thirty-five (of 365)

One day you’ll ask me to justify my actions and I will reply by saying:it’s because I yearn for the urgency that comes with whispering your name.

Today, when I thought about the past men in my life, I thought about them in terms of the writers they loved. A. loved Fitzgerald, B. Murakami, C. P.G. Wodehouse, and D. Rowling (which I thought was unmistakably charming considering he had the most intelligent and scientific mind out all of them combined).

I remember going to bookstores and being swept with emotion whenever I saw a book I knew had special meaning for them. On most occasions the feeling was of loss; I’d see one and turn away, pulling myself back from even touching the cover and forbidding myself to read even one page of that writer’s work because it felt like the action would be permitting myself to revisit old wounds. In the beginning of these relationships I would always be full of curiosity and enthusiasm, running to a bookstore or searching online for an excerpt of these novels in hopes that what I read would somehow decipher these men I was so intrigued by. I saw those books as extensions of who they were and read every page with a somewhat quiet reverence, treasuring each sentence with the thought that each held a secret about them that maybe - if I was patient enough - I would be able to unlock.

thirty (of 365)

I am the girl you fall in love with, but never the one you end up marrying. In the beginning, I will fascinate you - I will talk to you about music, books, movies, art, and I will talk with passion, smiling often and looking at you with the kindness I afford everyone I meet. I will make you laugh - I will listen to you and find some way to twist and twirl your words and ideas into something you never thought they could be. I will make you dance with me and we’ll do silly, completely childish things that you’ll remember with fondness and always, always with a smile. I will be romantic - I will write about you, to you, and you will be able to see a progression of our relationship from the messages in your inbox and the love letters I post for strangers to see (because a part of me feels that just giving them to you isn’t enough; people have to know how amazing you are). I will hug you every chance I get because I know about impermanence (so my hugs will be deeper and tighter than what you might expect). I will make you believe that this is it, that I’m the one you want to spend the rest of your life with, but sooner or later you will find yourself becoming irritated with all the things that you once loved about me. You will get tired of my stories, of my spontaneity, and my impracticality. You will tell yourself there’s something missing here. And then I won’t be the girl you love anymore, but the girl you stay with until you find what you’re looking for.

thirty-four (of 365)

Five straight lines and five quick turns. That’s all it takes to get from my bedroom to the door and finally, to the world outside. I know this because I’ve done it everyday for the past ninety-one days. I count everything, you see.

I lean back so I am lying on the wooden floor. I place my palms on the cold wood and for a moment I don’t feel like a part of the world. I hear rain through the window and I try to count the drops, but they’re too fast for me. The sound is comforting and yet terrifying; I both love and fear the fact that there are things in this world I can’t quantify.

Three hundred and fifty-four. That’s how many times you’ve said I love you. Two hundred and eighty-nine is the number of times I feel as if you’ve meant it. Sixty-three is the number of times I think about you and wish for your happiness. Five is the number of times I feel heartbroken everyday.

I don’t know why I keep counting. I don’t know why the numbers make me feel safe.

I close my eyes as I attempt to count the raindrops once more. They’re still too fast for me.