Author: Salvatore Difalco

Tilt Everything is bricking out. Nothing turns red or black or hits trips or boats up without consequences. By that I mean the man gnawing on his knuckles and his baby daughter somewhere he can’t go...

A man with a face by Tintoretto told me that his feet were cold and that he wondered would I trade my shoes for his. Nord Americano, he said, pointing at my green-piped black Nike Jokers.