CORI STORB
Everything here is real ~~~ and comes from the life of Cori Storb -----------> A little nomad girl in search of magic and adventures.
Please explore.
www.coristorb.com and www.facebook.com/coristorbphotography.
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fukunited:

Sad n alone
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F.U.K

Slow magic took this photo of me
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Sleepwalking By Cori Storb
Sleepwalking By Cori Storb
Sleepwalking By Cori Storb
Sleepwalking By Cori Storb
Sleepwalking By Cori Storb
Sleepwalking By Cori Storb
Sleepwalking By Cori Storb
Sleepwalking By Cori Storb
Sleepwalking By Cori Storb
Sleepwalking By Cori Storb
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We walked up the river - newly free from its frozen state. The water viscously robbing the heat from my feet carrying it away down river. My toes went from cold, to burning, to bones feeling like jagged spines and finally when they became totally numb, scarily feeling-less, like a part of my body was giving me the silent treatment and if I didn’t treat them right they might never speak to me again - at that point, we reached the frozen waterfall. 

A boy named Rio, he navigated the river so quickly, like he had known it his whole life. Like he was named after it. 


After we splashed down through the canyon and we were breathing life into our feet again, he asked if I believed in good and evil. I told him, “Only  applied to human things. I don’t think good and evil exist outside of humanity.”
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The guardians By Cori Storb
In my dreams I can bounce on the fabric of the sky like a trampoline - and the stars leap up like confetti  - all around me.  
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Things are pretty incredible these days. Soup can be eaten out of bowls that are entirely made out of bread. There are people to dance with. Cats that will nap on your belly. Rivers to swim in. The sun is constantly making elaborate exits right over our heads; and what is better? It always returns in a new colorful, fashion, and we can always look forward to that.You can be kissed on every part of your body - Toes, pinkies, the eye of your elbow - it is all beautiful. There are plants growing even when there is no one to water them. Some animals know how to sing. Every month or so the moon gets so bright that you can explore at any hour of the night. There are libraries filled with books that anyone can read. Bubble wrap can be popped with your toes. Someone has managed to capture the suns rays in various forms such as marmalade, tiny fuzzy ducks, dandelions, drier sheets, back massages and lemonade. And my god, we can eat breakfast for dinner!
Cori Storb
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Lumin essence            by Cori Storb 
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Rachel is ravishing. Her lips are big and shiny and look like they have endless kisses inside them – like they are always saying the letter O. Her closet is filled with towering boots, magic coats, vintage silk, black lace and leather fringe. She winks and smolders; I flutter and stumble. Boys try to keep her with leather collars and shiny rings, boys try to catch me with butterfly nets. ‘Step into your feminine wild’ she tells me with a shimmy and she show me how to dusts rouge on my cheeks, Boudoir, burlesque, Bugatti, baby.
     She dressed me up in her short shimmer dresses and we’d go out driving in the Buggati called Falcor, the wild white war beast that I suspect was born when a dragon mated with a motorcycle. In that car you are invincible – seatbelts are useless. We’d wind through the canyon with the wind twisting our hair into a lion’s manes. When we would drive in Falcor we’d turn into a parade – even in LA where star-studded glamour is the everyday – people would still wig out and yell and snap snap our picture at the red lights.
     Rachel knows a magician that owns white tigers. He invited us to accompany him to the Magic Castle: a secret clubhouse of elite magicians up in the Hollywood hills. Dressed in fur and velvet, I’d wander through the secret doorways, past libraries of books containing ancient magic. I’d watch cards appear out of thin air in the order of the serial number of a dollar bill in a ladies purse. A Magician would wave his hand and the olive would disappear out of Rachel’s martini. My mind was controlled. I summoned the 4 of diamonds. Gold and diamonds and white doves. 
     Then we’d drive out to the desert in our white dresses and leather jackets. Out to the Joshua trees, and the hot springs, and the no-mans-lands. Cutting mangoes skins with black knives, letting the juice run all the way down our forearms. Covered in sugar and desert we’d sharpen our claws, take off our clothes, and dance around.
By Cori Storb
Rachel is ravishing. Her lips are big and shiny and look like they have endless kisses inside them – like they are always saying the letter O. Her closet is filled with towering boots, magic coats, vintage silk, black lace and leather fringe. She winks and smolders; I flutter and stumble. Boys try to keep her with leather collars and shiny rings, boys try to catch me with butterfly nets. ‘Step into your feminine wild’ she tells me with a shimmy and she show me how to dusts rouge on my cheeks, Boudoir, burlesque, Bugatti, baby.
     She dressed me up in her short shimmer dresses and we’d go out driving in the Buggati called Falcor, the wild white war beast that I suspect was born when a dragon mated with a motorcycle. In that car you are invincible – seatbelts are useless. We’d wind through the canyon with the wind twisting our hair into a lion’s manes. When we would drive in Falcor we’d turn into a parade – even in LA where star-studded glamour is the everyday – people would still wig out and yell and snap snap our picture at the red lights.
     Rachel knows a magician that owns white tigers. He invited us to accompany him to the Magic Castle: a secret clubhouse of elite magicians up in the Hollywood hills. Dressed in fur and velvet, I’d wander through the secret doorways, past libraries of books containing ancient magic. I’d watch cards appear out of thin air in the order of the serial number of a dollar bill in a ladies purse. A Magician would wave his hand and the olive would disappear out of Rachel’s martini. My mind was controlled. I summoned the 4 of diamonds. Gold and diamonds and white doves. 
     Then we’d drive out to the desert in our white dresses and leather jackets. Out to the Joshua trees, and the hot springs, and the no-mans-lands. Cutting mangoes skins with black knives, letting the juice run all the way down our forearms. Covered in sugar and desert we’d sharpen our claws, take off our clothes, and dance around.
By Cori Storb
Rachel is ravishing. Her lips are big and shiny and look like they have endless kisses inside them – like they are always saying the letter O. Her closet is filled with towering boots, magic coats, vintage silk, black lace and leather fringe. She winks and smolders; I flutter and stumble. Boys try to keep her with leather collars and shiny rings, boys try to catch me with butterfly nets. ‘Step into your feminine wild’ she tells me with a shimmy and she show me how to dusts rouge on my cheeks, Boudoir, burlesque, Bugatti, baby.
     She dressed me up in her short shimmer dresses and we’d go out driving in the Buggati called Falcor, the wild white war beast that I suspect was born when a dragon mated with a motorcycle. In that car you are invincible – seatbelts are useless. We’d wind through the canyon with the wind twisting our hair into a lion’s manes. When we would drive in Falcor we’d turn into a parade – even in LA where star-studded glamour is the everyday – people would still wig out and yell and snap snap our picture at the red lights.
     Rachel knows a magician that owns white tigers. He invited us to accompany him to the Magic Castle: a secret clubhouse of elite magicians up in the Hollywood hills. Dressed in fur and velvet, I’d wander through the secret doorways, past libraries of books containing ancient magic. I’d watch cards appear out of thin air in the order of the serial number of a dollar bill in a ladies purse. A Magician would wave his hand and the olive would disappear out of Rachel’s martini. My mind was controlled. I summoned the 4 of diamonds. Gold and diamonds and white doves. 
     Then we’d drive out to the desert in our white dresses and leather jackets. Out to the Joshua trees, and the hot springs, and the no-mans-lands. Cutting mangoes skins with black knives, letting the juice run all the way down our forearms. Covered in sugar and desert we’d sharpen our claws, take off our clothes, and dance around.
By Cori Storb
Rachel is ravishing. Her lips are big and shiny and look like they have endless kisses inside them – like they are always saying the letter O. Her closet is filled with towering boots, magic coats, vintage silk, black lace and leather fringe. She winks and smolders; I flutter and stumble. Boys try to keep her with leather collars and shiny rings, boys try to catch me with butterfly nets. ‘Step into your feminine wild’ she tells me with a shimmy and she show me how to dusts rouge on my cheeks, Boudoir, burlesque, Bugatti, baby.
     She dressed me up in her short shimmer dresses and we’d go out driving in the Buggati called Falcor, the wild white war beast that I suspect was born when a dragon mated with a motorcycle. In that car you are invincible – seatbelts are useless. We’d wind through the canyon with the wind twisting our hair into a lion’s manes. When we would drive in Falcor we’d turn into a parade – even in LA where star-studded glamour is the everyday – people would still wig out and yell and snap snap our picture at the red lights.
     Rachel knows a magician that owns white tigers. He invited us to accompany him to the Magic Castle: a secret clubhouse of elite magicians up in the Hollywood hills. Dressed in fur and velvet, I’d wander through the secret doorways, past libraries of books containing ancient magic. I’d watch cards appear out of thin air in the order of the serial number of a dollar bill in a ladies purse. A Magician would wave his hand and the olive would disappear out of Rachel’s martini. My mind was controlled. I summoned the 4 of diamonds. Gold and diamonds and white doves. 
     Then we’d drive out to the desert in our white dresses and leather jackets. Out to the Joshua trees, and the hot springs, and the no-mans-lands. Cutting mangoes skins with black knives, letting the juice run all the way down our forearms. Covered in sugar and desert we’d sharpen our claws, take off our clothes, and dance around.
By Cori Storb
Rachel is ravishing. Her lips are big and shiny and look like they have endless kisses inside them – like they are always saying the letter O. Her closet is filled with towering boots, magic coats, vintage silk, black lace and leather fringe. She winks and smolders; I flutter and stumble. Boys try to keep her with leather collars and shiny rings, boys try to catch me with butterfly nets. ‘Step into your feminine wild’ she tells me with a shimmy and she show me how to dusts rouge on my cheeks, Boudoir, burlesque, Bugatti, baby.
     She dressed me up in her short shimmer dresses and we’d go out driving in the Buggati called Falcor, the wild white war beast that I suspect was born when a dragon mated with a motorcycle. In that car you are invincible – seatbelts are useless. We’d wind through the canyon with the wind twisting our hair into a lion’s manes. When we would drive in Falcor we’d turn into a parade – even in LA where star-studded glamour is the everyday – people would still wig out and yell and snap snap our picture at the red lights.
     Rachel knows a magician that owns white tigers. He invited us to accompany him to the Magic Castle: a secret clubhouse of elite magicians up in the Hollywood hills. Dressed in fur and velvet, I’d wander through the secret doorways, past libraries of books containing ancient magic. I’d watch cards appear out of thin air in the order of the serial number of a dollar bill in a ladies purse. A Magician would wave his hand and the olive would disappear out of Rachel’s martini. My mind was controlled. I summoned the 4 of diamonds. Gold and diamonds and white doves. 
     Then we’d drive out to the desert in our white dresses and leather jackets. Out to the Joshua trees, and the hot springs, and the no-mans-lands. Cutting mangoes skins with black knives, letting the juice run all the way down our forearms. Covered in sugar and desert we’d sharpen our claws, take off our clothes, and dance around.
By Cori Storb
Rachel is ravishing. Her lips are big and shiny and look like they have endless kisses inside them – like they are always saying the letter O. Her closet is filled with towering boots, magic coats, vintage silk, black lace and leather fringe. She winks and smolders; I flutter and stumble. Boys try to keep her with leather collars and shiny rings, boys try to catch me with butterfly nets. ‘Step into your feminine wild’ she tells me with a shimmy and she show me how to dusts rouge on my cheeks, Boudoir, burlesque, Bugatti, baby.
     She dressed me up in her short shimmer dresses and we’d go out driving in the Buggati called Falcor, the wild white war beast that I suspect was born when a dragon mated with a motorcycle. In that car you are invincible – seatbelts are useless. We’d wind through the canyon with the wind twisting our hair into a lion’s manes. When we would drive in Falcor we’d turn into a parade – even in LA where star-studded glamour is the everyday – people would still wig out and yell and snap snap our picture at the red lights.
     Rachel knows a magician that owns white tigers. He invited us to accompany him to the Magic Castle: a secret clubhouse of elite magicians up in the Hollywood hills. Dressed in fur and velvet, I’d wander through the secret doorways, past libraries of books containing ancient magic. I’d watch cards appear out of thin air in the order of the serial number of a dollar bill in a ladies purse. A Magician would wave his hand and the olive would disappear out of Rachel’s martini. My mind was controlled. I summoned the 4 of diamonds. Gold and diamonds and white doves. 
     Then we’d drive out to the desert in our white dresses and leather jackets. Out to the Joshua trees, and the hot springs, and the no-mans-lands. Cutting mangoes skins with black knives, letting the juice run all the way down our forearms. Covered in sugar and desert we’d sharpen our claws, take off our clothes, and dance around.
By Cori Storb
Rachel is ravishing. Her lips are big and shiny and look like they have endless kisses inside them – like they are always saying the letter O. Her closet is filled with towering boots, magic coats, vintage silk, black lace and leather fringe. She winks and smolders; I flutter and stumble. Boys try to keep her with leather collars and shiny rings, boys try to catch me with butterfly nets. ‘Step into your feminine wild’ she tells me with a shimmy and she show me how to dusts rouge on my cheeks, Boudoir, burlesque, Bugatti, baby.
     She dressed me up in her short shimmer dresses and we’d go out driving in the Buggati called Falcor, the wild white war beast that I suspect was born when a dragon mated with a motorcycle. In that car you are invincible – seatbelts are useless. We’d wind through the canyon with the wind twisting our hair into a lion’s manes. When we would drive in Falcor we’d turn into a parade – even in LA where star-studded glamour is the everyday – people would still wig out and yell and snap snap our picture at the red lights.
     Rachel knows a magician that owns white tigers. He invited us to accompany him to the Magic Castle: a secret clubhouse of elite magicians up in the Hollywood hills. Dressed in fur and velvet, I’d wander through the secret doorways, past libraries of books containing ancient magic. I’d watch cards appear out of thin air in the order of the serial number of a dollar bill in a ladies purse. A Magician would wave his hand and the olive would disappear out of Rachel’s martini. My mind was controlled. I summoned the 4 of diamonds. Gold and diamonds and white doves. 
     Then we’d drive out to the desert in our white dresses and leather jackets. Out to the Joshua trees, and the hot springs, and the no-mans-lands. Cutting mangoes skins with black knives, letting the juice run all the way down our forearms. Covered in sugar and desert we’d sharpen our claws, take off our clothes, and dance around.
By Cori Storb
Rachel is ravishing. Her lips are big and shiny and look like they have endless kisses inside them – like they are always saying the letter O. Her closet is filled with towering boots, magic coats, vintage silk, black lace and leather fringe. She winks and smolders; I flutter and stumble. Boys try to keep her with leather collars and shiny rings, boys try to catch me with butterfly nets. ‘Step into your feminine wild’ she tells me with a shimmy and she show me how to dusts rouge on my cheeks, Boudoir, burlesque, Bugatti, baby.
     She dressed me up in her short shimmer dresses and we’d go out driving in the Buggati called Falcor, the wild white war beast that I suspect was born when a dragon mated with a motorcycle. In that car you are invincible – seatbelts are useless. We’d wind through the canyon with the wind twisting our hair into a lion’s manes. When we would drive in Falcor we’d turn into a parade – even in LA where star-studded glamour is the everyday – people would still wig out and yell and snap snap our picture at the red lights.
     Rachel knows a magician that owns white tigers. He invited us to accompany him to the Magic Castle: a secret clubhouse of elite magicians up in the Hollywood hills. Dressed in fur and velvet, I’d wander through the secret doorways, past libraries of books containing ancient magic. I’d watch cards appear out of thin air in the order of the serial number of a dollar bill in a ladies purse. A Magician would wave his hand and the olive would disappear out of Rachel’s martini. My mind was controlled. I summoned the 4 of diamonds. Gold and diamonds and white doves. 
     Then we’d drive out to the desert in our white dresses and leather jackets. Out to the Joshua trees, and the hot springs, and the no-mans-lands. Cutting mangoes skins with black knives, letting the juice run all the way down our forearms. Covered in sugar and desert we’d sharpen our claws, take off our clothes, and dance around.
By Cori Storb
Rachel is ravishing. Her lips are big and shiny and look like they have endless kisses inside them – like they are always saying the letter O. Her closet is filled with towering boots, magic coats, vintage silk, black lace and leather fringe. She winks and smolders; I flutter and stumble. Boys try to keep her with leather collars and shiny rings, boys try to catch me with butterfly nets. ‘Step into your feminine wild’ she tells me with a shimmy and she show me how to dusts rouge on my cheeks, Boudoir, burlesque, Bugatti, baby.
     She dressed me up in her short shimmer dresses and we’d go out driving in the Buggati called Falcor, the wild white war beast that I suspect was born when a dragon mated with a motorcycle. In that car you are invincible – seatbelts are useless. We’d wind through the canyon with the wind twisting our hair into a lion’s manes. When we would drive in Falcor we’d turn into a parade – even in LA where star-studded glamour is the everyday – people would still wig out and yell and snap snap our picture at the red lights.
     Rachel knows a magician that owns white tigers. He invited us to accompany him to the Magic Castle: a secret clubhouse of elite magicians up in the Hollywood hills. Dressed in fur and velvet, I’d wander through the secret doorways, past libraries of books containing ancient magic. I’d watch cards appear out of thin air in the order of the serial number of a dollar bill in a ladies purse. A Magician would wave his hand and the olive would disappear out of Rachel’s martini. My mind was controlled. I summoned the 4 of diamonds. Gold and diamonds and white doves. 
     Then we’d drive out to the desert in our white dresses and leather jackets. Out to the Joshua trees, and the hot springs, and the no-mans-lands. Cutting mangoes skins with black knives, letting the juice run all the way down our forearms. Covered in sugar and desert we’d sharpen our claws, take off our clothes, and dance around.
By Cori Storb
Rachel is ravishing. Her lips are big and shiny and look like they have endless kisses inside them – like they are always saying the letter O. Her closet is filled with towering boots, magic coats, vintage silk, black lace and leather fringe. She winks and smolders; I flutter and stumble. Boys try to keep her with leather collars and shiny rings, boys try to catch me with butterfly nets. ‘Step into your feminine wild’ she tells me with a shimmy and she show me how to dusts rouge on my cheeks, Boudoir, burlesque, Bugatti, baby.
     She dressed me up in her short shimmer dresses and we’d go out driving in the Buggati called Falcor, the wild white war beast that I suspect was born when a dragon mated with a motorcycle. In that car you are invincible – seatbelts are useless. We’d wind through the canyon with the wind twisting our hair into a lion’s manes. When we would drive in Falcor we’d turn into a parade – even in LA where star-studded glamour is the everyday – people would still wig out and yell and snap snap our picture at the red lights.
     Rachel knows a magician that owns white tigers. He invited us to accompany him to the Magic Castle: a secret clubhouse of elite magicians up in the Hollywood hills. Dressed in fur and velvet, I’d wander through the secret doorways, past libraries of books containing ancient magic. I’d watch cards appear out of thin air in the order of the serial number of a dollar bill in a ladies purse. A Magician would wave his hand and the olive would disappear out of Rachel’s martini. My mind was controlled. I summoned the 4 of diamonds. Gold and diamonds and white doves. 
     Then we’d drive out to the desert in our white dresses and leather jackets. Out to the Joshua trees, and the hot springs, and the no-mans-lands. Cutting mangoes skins with black knives, letting the juice run all the way down our forearms. Covered in sugar and desert we’d sharpen our claws, take off our clothes, and dance around.
By Cori Storb
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Desert Dweller by Cori Storb
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ow ah! check out my new floating metal prints - they come ready to hang and are invincible (no need to frame!). All the photographs from www.coristorb.com are available - contact coristorb@gamil.com if you want one! Or check out: https://www.etsy.com/shop/CoriStorbPhotography
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by Cori Storb
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This life is powered by sunlight, which is starlight, which is heat and energy that flew through space and grew into radishes, which grew into humans. And we’ve all been dancing around on these legs made up of peppers and minerals and berries. All these little escaped star pieces, doing crossword puzzles, taking naps, falling in love with one another. We’ve all been on fire, we’ve all been in the dirt, and we are all falling through space. For your whole life you have been falling, and you have been burning. A million things have died and transferred their lives into your body so you can keep breathing. So you can keep feeling and seeing and loving and dancing. Your body makes heat, you are an animal, you are a star scrap, a brand new radiant shape. You are so unfathomably beautiful.
~ Cori Storb
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In the wild, nothing is ‘clean’ and nothing is ‘dirty’. Those words don’t exist. In the city there are germs and grime and smog. People bustle around and tidy and straighten and compartmentalize and sort.~In the forest nothing is ‘clean’ it just isalive or dead or running or growing or melting or coming back to life. All the rocks are in the correct place.Anything that is alive is in it’s correct place. Everything is made of dirt, but nothing is dirty. And the animals kill and fuck and feast but they aren’t badthey are animals.
      By Cori Storb
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by Cori Storb
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Connecting with other people has made my world feel more vast than all the traveling I have done in my life. If you want to learn knew things, explore, and expand -> get to know someone, really get to know someone. It will take time and patience to dig into the person, you have to get past the superficial layer, so bring a shovel and a flashlight and some really good questions. The more different the person is from you, the better. If the differences make you feel uncomfortable - then you are on the right track - magic happens outside of your comfort zone.
- Cori Storb