perusing the work of monika bielskyte has achingly inspired me. there is something coldly vulnerable and intimate to her work, all gossamer veins and desert stretches of pallid skin over broken bones. ribs laid naked and bare on a frigid slab, bruised by frankenstein fingertips {like a patient etherised upon a table}. the tangled sheets on the empty bed, suffused with the haemorrhagic remains of whispered love and desperate philosophies.