• Lightweight and portable, making it perfect for travel or on-the-go use.
• Excellent battery life, offering up to 12 hours of continuous use on a single charge.
• Semi water-resistant, built to withstand accidental splashes, rain, or light spills.
• High-resolution print display with crisp, vibrant visuals
• Fast charging, providing up to 80% charge in just 30 seconds.
• Ergonomic grip, designed for comfortable handling and reduced strain.
• Seamless Bluetooth connectivity, pairing effortlessly with devices.

Feral, Not Famous. A journey across four continents.

I’ve had a desire to create a print magazine for as long as I can remember. Feral is a rag. For fags. The pandemic was the catalyst, the last straw. The knots that bound me to my old ways with photography became suddenly undone and I decided to follow my dreams instead.

Borders eased up and I started hopping from place to place. But I still felt isolated. I turned my gaze to thin, invisible spaces. Days without night. Ideas rushed over me in showers, washing away doubts and the weight of judgement. I had a rough plan without a roadmap. I went where life took me. An arsenal of cameras. A backpack. Voice recordings on an iPhone. Late nights transcribing candid conversations. Strings of disconnected thoughts dumped into a notes app. A theme emerged. Is it still OK to be gay? A record of queer life in the 2020s started forming. Moments, caught. Going. Letting go. Where to next?

Life kills. We’re a generation longing. Connected by wifi, but desperate to meet in person. Connections built out of late-night DMs and secret photo dumps. Short connections for short interactions. Sometimes they stick. Mostly, they don’t. That’s fine. We won’t be told we’re not normal. We won’t change. Is life even about living anymore?

London.
Something is about to get blown. With them, everything is play. Words. Ideas. Bodies. A friendship that isn’t sex, but it’s intimate. Joy is contagious. Clothing remains optional.

Berlin.
Formless. Red paint. Czech stallion. Carb-loaded. Body count lost in steam. Witnesses didn’t matter. This wasn’t for them.

Paris.
The erupting self-portraitist of the Bois de Vincennes. Dreamy-eyed, rumpled. Pollinating the internet with his body. He smelled like earth.

Cape Town.
Bluephoria. Baby-face. Lush pits. Pansexual power-vers. Heavy construction. Less sightseeing, more “them”.

Île du Levant.
A naked island in the Mediterranean. Bare feet on salt-etched rocks. Steak, peaches, Mister Levant. Erotic, perfect.

Amsterdam.
Filter culture. A Romanian stoner turned homoerotic cutout archivist, erased by Instagram. They still think we’re animals. If only they knew they’re not wrong.

Berlin again.
Two girls, seventeen years of shared beds, shared boys, shared lives. “We don’t date.” But they’ve touched each other. And they love each other.

Brazil, Poland, Czech Republic, South Africa, Germany, USA, Italy, France, Netherlands, Romania, Portugal. Something has formed that’s bigger than geography.

I slipped off my shorts as they asked me to join them on that terrace. I let go of everything. I dropped my restraint, leaving it to simmer in the sun. We might have parted ways, but what I left behind still lingers on that London rooftop. That’s where Feral kicks off.

Infinity, unresolved.