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Sawyer Conlon
About
Projects
Overbrook
Polaroids
Tarot
Witchcraft
Blackout Books
Lost
Death
Blog
Shop
0
0
About
Folder: Projects
Back
Overbrook
Polaroids
Tarot
Witchcraft
Folder: Blackout Books
Back
Lost
Death
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Two (Copy) View fullsize
Finale (Copy) View fullsize
Everybody was poison. The air was quiet for a while. His skull didn’t resume his warning. He was taken with her. View fullsize
His funeral, always permanent. It is just an illusion. Now, when I myself am dead, I simply go on. Billy had quit. I hadn’t noticed. View fullsize
All this responsibility. Meanwhile, he was doing nothing. Don’t lie to me. I know you. Father, father, father what are we going to do ? I wanted to know. View fullsize
The little black organ had thirty-nine keys and two stops. It was playing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” It was Sunday morning. Billy had gathered a congregation who was alive and who was dead. They were all theoretically dead now. What an adve View fullsize
He had no feet. Billy had Lost his way. The bullet was polite. Chance was his marksman. View fullsize
It fired. I killed everybody but the unhappy, the unpopular, stupid and mean. I killed no one. I was innocent. View fullsize
They bristled. Savage affection makes a wound that won’t close up. What do you know? What the hell was true? View fullsize
He was trying to construct a life that made sense. Ten minutes had gone by without any luck. There was no growth in dancing— step, slide rest—step, slide, rest. Billy moved on. Good-bye. View fullsize
Two (Copy)
Finale (Copy)
Everybody was poison. The air was quiet for a while. His skull didn’t resume his warning. He was taken with her.
His funeral, always permanent. It is just an illusion. Now, when I myself am dead, I simply go on. Billy had quit. I hadn’t noticed.
All this responsibility. Meanwhile, he was doing nothing. Don’t lie to me. I know you. Father, father, father what are we going to do ? I wanted to know.
The little black organ had thirty-nine keys and two stops. It was playing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” It was Sunday morning. Billy had gathered a congregation who was alive and who was dead. They were all theoretically dead now. What an adve
He had no feet. Billy had Lost his way. The bullet was polite. Chance was his marksman.
It fired. I killed everybody but the unhappy, the unpopular, stupid and mean. I killed no one. I was innocent.
They bristled. Savage affection makes a wound that won’t close up. What do you know? What the hell was true?
He was trying to construct a life that made sense. Ten minutes had gone by without any luck. There was no growth in dancing— step, slide rest—step, slide, rest. Billy moved on. Good-bye.

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sawyer@sawyerconlon.com

(973) 980-0558