Elsa Hosk, NYC, April 26 2018
Tag: fav
Giedre Dukauskaite photographed by Quentin de Briey for Vogue Paris May 2018
Stylist: Tony Irvine
Police Recovering Human Remains From the Homes of Serial Killers
Dennis Nilsen – Muswell Hill – Nilsen murdered at least 12 young men, storing their bodies in his garden and underneath floorboards. He was only caught after limbs of his victims clogged the drains as he attempted to dispose of them. Police who searched Nilsen’s property found a torso and two legs in his bathroom as well as a tea chest filled with bones.
John Wayne Gacy – 8213 West Summerdale Avenue – Like Nilsen, Gacy was a serial killer who preyed on young men and boys, disposing of their bodies underneath his home. The bodies of 28 of the 33 boys murdered by Gacy were found buried there. Gacy only began dumping his victim’s bodies in the Des Plaines river after running out of room in his crawl space.
John Christie – 10 Rillington Place – John Reginald Christie murdered at least eight women by strangling them in London during the 1940′s and 50′s. Police who searched Christie’s home found three bodies in the walls, two in the garden and even the body of his wife (who he killed) buried beneath his floorboards.
Jeffrey Dahmer – Apartment 213 – Police who searched the now world infamous Apartment 213 were met with a grisly discovery. Dahmer had murdered 17 young men over more than a decade. The barrel shown being recovered by police contained three human torsos alone. An additional torso and three human heads were found in a freezer. More horrors were found inside by police including skulls, preserved human muscle and even a human heart.
Moonlight Serenade playing from another room
Glenn Miller
The year is 1942, and there is a war.
Not here, and not yet, but it’s the thought that weighs heavily on your minds. It threatens to disrupt the peaceful reprieve you have both managed to seek out from the party. Away from that crowded, smoky dance floor, and out into the gardens, where the evening is cool and fragrant. Everything is muted out here, softer, both sound and sight.
Alone together. One offers a hand, the other takes it, and you begin to dance.
For now, the idea of war is an ocean away. For now, you have the golden streams of light that spill out from the French windows, letting your shadows on the wet cobblestone stretch longer as you sway to a muffled tune.
Neither of you speak. The atmosphere is rich and dense with the delicate swell of instrumentals, the cloying scent of hyacinths, with the weight of words left unsaid. It’s a last dance. It’s a goodbye. But above all, it is a theft. Possibilities, moments in time, the growth of something more, all taken away by forces much larger than either of you.
Your eyes drift closed, and everything fades to the back of your mind except for the person in front of you. Your awareness has narrowed down to a few sensations, cataloguing them in your mind and stashing them away for safe keeping. Hands clasped together, a soft cheek leaning on a wool-clad shoulder, a hushed sigh close to an ear. Hair being brushed back, the sweep of eyelashes over cheekbone, the reassuring warmth of another person.
Chest to chest, heart to heart. You wish that this dance would never end, continue like the constant, never changing cadence of the music. You wish that you could capture this moment in amber, moving neither forwards or backwards, only a gentle sway to a distant song.
But the year is 1942, and there is a war, and soon the music fades to silence.
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