Fragments, voices, and unfinished passages from Francis Rosenfeld. Some things were spoken before they were written. Some things were written so they would endure.
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There is the physical aspect of things, the solid reality of the substance they’re made of, their shape, their color, their properties, their limited footprint in reality, and then there is another as
If we all live a dream, if everything is a figment of our imagination, as insubstantial as fog, then the one prayer we have to find meaning in this experience is for this dream to be a pleasant one.
On the westernmost edge of the Oceanus, which spans the vast distance between the world of the living and the underworld, there is a splendid garden, constantly bathed in the glow of the sunset.
Excerpt from The Garden - an upcoming novel by Francis Rosenfeld
A soft breeze blew through the arched openings and brought with it the scent of flowers. Cimmy couldn’t figure out what flowers those were, but their fragrance was deeply anchored into her memories.
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Tartarus was chaotic, violent and too strange, even for Hades. There was no telling what could happen next, and which of its terrifying denizens would wreak havoc without warning, not a place where o
Vous décidez qu’il est temps d’acheter une nouvelle paire de chaussures. Vous savez déjà ce que vous cherchez : un modèle raisonnable, capable de s’accorder avec votre garde-robe et de suivre sans eff
My mind revs up full speed at intersections, and every day is from a different life design: no continuity, no breaks, no preset lines, as if I’m thrust into the heart of Time.
Today Mama gave me nothing to look at but art. Paintings, specifically, the entire digitized collection of the Museum of Modern Art. I asked him what I was supposed to do after I digested this dataset
