Dear Artist










Dear Artist, Creator, Mark-Maker,

What made you do what you did? I look at what you left behind, the varying degrees of talent and message and wonder. What made you want to do such a thing? Don’t get me wrong, I love your work – well some of it I love. I can’t deny that random words and shapes, gang signs on the train tracks, don’t exactly leave me inspired, but they do leave me wondering.

I want to know what the single, starting, catalytic thought that lead to your actions was. I want to know whether it was pre-planned or spur of the moment. Yet I can’t find you to ask. You don’t leave any clue of who you are, any name or mention. So I find myself left, just looking at the pen mark, that spray of colour and wondering.



Dear Viewer,

What is it you see, think or feel when you look at such a thing? Are you disgusted, annoyed, inspired, intrigued or do you not even spare it a second thought? Do you wonder what I do?

Don’t you want to do the same? Just grab something, anything and leave a little mark of yourself somewhere. I know I do. I look at the walls covered in colour and think I want to be a part of that. I want to leave a little part of myself amongst the masses; I don’t want to walk away and for it to be like I was never there. Though it’s not often I have a spray can or sharpie in my pocket enabling me to do so.

Where does your line lie between what is art and what is vandalism?

Have you ever even spared it a thought?



Dear observer,

I did that. I left that little mark that you see, that picture, that slogan or statement. Whatever it was, whatever it will be, I haven’t quite decided yet. I like to think it’ll be a spur of the moment thing, some random message that means so much. But I doubt it will, most likely you’re looking at the random ramblings of a girl who, when the moment came didn’t have a clue what to put. But either way, I’m there, amongst all the colour there’s a little piece of me, amongst the masses.



Photo Shape Editor:

Lucy Harbron (Founder & Editor)

17 year old busy editing KILORAN, writing my lil heart out  & probably re-watching Sex and The City.

Instagram- @lucyharbron_

Twitter- @lucyharbron

Eliza Caraher

Probably in leopard print and pretending I’m cool. I just wanna create beautiful things with writing, film and photography. Often ranting about world issues or Quentin Tarantino’s genius.

Instagram- @elizacaraher

Twitter- @elizacaraher_

Photo Shape Editor:

Simmy Hoonjan

A 15 year old who is trying to create herself, advocate self love and promote creativity.

Instagram- @simmyhoonjan

Twitter- @posi_simmy

Daisy-Chain Scott

Short-sighted journalist, trying to make the world a more equal place – however still believes that the world revolves around music and Liam Gallagher. Find me loitering in press pits of gigs and milling around on the internet.

Instagram- @daisychainscott

Twitter- @daischains

Photo Shape Editor:

Lucas Jones

Singer. Actor. Feminist. Sugar.

Instagram- @lucasjones19

Twitter- @Lucassjones

Photo Shape Editor:

Natalie Friesem

Lover of the 70s, Wes Anderson Films, and anything starring James Dean or Audrey Hepburn. Can be found drinking tea, listening to Fleetwood Mac or reading anything and everything.

Instagram- @nat_sara

Photo Shape Editor:

Samara Sajid

Feminism, food, positivity, photography.

Sonja Katanic

An eccentrically-dressed, whimsically creative, bitter illustrator and writer. When she’s not obsessively watching movies, she’s crying over harry styles, editing over at Plasma Dolphin and listening to dream pop in her underwear.

Instagram- @sonjatitanic

Twitter- @sonjatitanic

Lauren Aitken

Adventurous 16 year old feminist, trying to change the world one ripple at a time. I love studying languages in order to meet as many amazing people as possible. In my spare time I dance the ballet, read 19th century mystery novels and plan my future home in Paris

Instagram- @laurenaitken8

Twitter- @laurenaitken8

Jonathan Whyatt

Just trying to find the words to describe the thoughts that plague my mind. They’re just words, empty words.But the right ones could wake the earth.

Twitter- @straangehouse

Photo Shape Editor:

Sara Aumell

An ‘amateur’ writer in high school that enjoys writing and listening to weird music. She wants to impact the world in a positive way sometime in her existence on earth.

Photo Shape Editor:

Nabeela Saghir

My penchant for sunsets, the ocean and notebooks are just a small nuance of who I am since my identity is constantly fluctuating. And I believe that it’s due to the fact that this generation of Millennials are lost. So I read literature in order to find myself and I write so that I can build a new world where creativity, colour and magic can be revived once again.

Twitter- @nabsticle

Photo edited with

Izaak Bosman

A wannabe somebody with an innate love of Bowie and the Beat generation’s vibe; I also have an overwhelming fear of inequality and ‘nobbly bobbly’ ice creams.

Instagram- @groovy.cactus

Twitter- @izaakbosman

Kelsey Ellington

Deep thinker and thoughtful writer. I work on YouTube uploading mainly poetry, vlogs and songs with Red (my guitar). I guess you could say my lyrics are just as thought provoking as my poetry.

Instagram- @kelseylaurenellington

Photo Shape Editor:

Hope Naisbitt

I like coffee, hiking, yoga, hammocking and photography. I am an American soul trapped inside a British exterior and the definition of granola. CARPE DIEM

Photo Shape Editor:

Ewan Barr

A lame music enthusiast who enjoys anything from the likes of diiv too disclosure. I also enjoy doing photography in my spare time as well as running my own blog Jam (@JAMMUSICBLOG). On top of that i also sing and play guitar badly, in my band Dose (@whoaredose).

Instagram- @yernbarr

Twitter- @yernbarr

Wanna join the club? Contribute to the next issue

Letter From The Editor

Dear you,

I like to think of issue one being a body- subsistent, strong and each piece different yet necessary and perfect. But issue two is a soul, it’s simple and it’s small but each piece is so full of feeling and creativity and life.

When I was younger I wrote a lot of letters; to friends that lived far away telling them all my latest gossip, to friends in school, thank you letters, apology letters and for a while I wrote letters to my future self. I think letters are the one thing that we’ve ruined with technology, now we only seem to write ‘letters of complaint’ (or you know you’ve really messed up when your parents get a letter from school) as why write a thank you letter when you can just drop someone a text? Why write a love letter when you can just like their selfie on insta? It’s a dying art form I’m desperate to revive.

I wrote my letter to the hotel Chelsea even before issue one was out, and the idea of it played on my mind for a long time as I thought I had so many thank you’s to say and so many messages for the world, not just people but places and emotions and concepts. So I gave a simple brief to my favourite creative people-

“Create a letter to anyone, anything or anywhere.”

At first the letters were going to be part of a larger issue, but the minute I read Simmy’s Self Love Letter I knew this had to be something bigger, it deserved something bigger. And that’s how issue two was born but oh baby has it grown since then. If issue 1 was like welcoming my child into the world, issue 2 was sending my toddler off to nursery.

With every new letter this issue seemed to bloom and it gave me the chance to work with some of the people I admire most like Izaak, Eliza and Sonja who are so ridiculously talented and creative. But also, since issue one was released I’ve had the chance to talk to and work with some amaaazing people like Simmy- the most beautiful strong, positive girl to ever grace twitter, and Lucas- an actual real life rainbow of a human. This is why I started KILORAN, to be able to work with amazing people and this making this issue was a delight.

So MAAAASSIVE thank you to everyone involved for helping to build a soul for KILORAN, you all take my breath away.

I hope this issue makes you feel something and you remember to write thank you letters to those that deserve them in the future,
Love, Lucy Harbron x

To the Hyacinth Girl in the Hyacinth Garden

To the Hyacinth Girl in the Hyacinth Garden,

Let it be known that the sailor has not become something lost to the sea.

The dull and empty sea, which now so gracefully embraces the red rock, offers no shadow, and no relief. But no matter, as our Fisher King is fertile and so is his kingdom, for nature is a funny thing. And as for nature, should I, by some cruel trick, have the mind of a poet and the body of a butcher, then I should still love you as I do now, without measure, for our fate, which cannot be taken from us, is a gift, and so is the future.

     My own Orlando,

Eternal and yet so graceful.

Our future, although there the hemisphere is freezing in winter, is not quite apart from shattered glass of the chapel, which is bound and burnt together; but there you find comfort, (or, at least, there comfort is should you need to find it). The stories of thousands, in a matrimony of stained glass, comprehend by the sun, are ceaseless and unfathomed.

And let it be known that, like the glass, the dust will not, and cannot, fade like the freckles on your skin in the winter, where it is freezing. For, it is a bitter trick of nature, (not that of the poet and the butcher), but that of the crack in tea cup, and the chasm. But our friend, the music, has a melody sweeter than a grape upon the pallet, and it is endless too.

 She dwells beauty – beauty that must die

But Joy, whose hand will never touch his lips,

Bids that the sea cease its cry.  

For let it be known that, although the sands will not set us free,

The sailor must refuse to die

As nature is our melody,

And our tea cup does  little more than serve us tea,

For you and I,

Well, let it be known.

To Your Soul, With Love

Take the time. Tell everyone you love them, cry if and when you need, write, write with a pen on a scrap of tatty paper, draw, draw the faces of strangers on trains, dance in your kitchen, dance in your bathroom, dance with friends, dance with strangers, drink water, eat apples, watch films, read, feed your soul, allow your soul to feed others but never let yourself be consumed by anything other than love.

Dear Red

Dear Red,

Where do I start? Where did we start? How far have we come from being boxed up to being the birthplace of lyrics and the deepest of thoughts? How many tears have you seen me cry, how many times has your shoulder been dampened by them? By me. How many spurts of anger have you had to encounter, with the consequences of broken chords and out of tune voices? And how many words- exactly- have you counted from my tongue, because you gave me the motivation to do far more than just speak my emotions. How many times have we laughed, laughed at the old love that we knew so well and heard the lyrics, the sweet lyrics turn to bitter meaning, and the love turn to hate. How many years have we been seeing out? How many people have we met? How many sorrows have we sang together? And how much dust have you gathered in my place?

There is nothing like the bond between a fair human being and bits of dead wood, and horsetail put together, because that’s all you are. Dead. But somehow, when we sing, when our voices entwine like the strings your vocal chords come from, you’re alive. We become a harmony, a team, much like a writer and a pen, much more than an artist and their paintbrush. It is an unexplainable phenomenon when we create a world that only we know so fondly of. There is no greater sound than the one where our chords move in unison. From the curves of your body, to the strings of your emotion, which shine a metallic red, Copper is what others may see, but all I know is that you shine golden to me.

I see myself in you, not just by reflection, no, but your ways that only I seem to know, I used to think long ago that wooden objects surely couldn’t have a soul, but now I realise that you share mine. I realise that you share everything with me, my thoughts, my emotions, my love, my room, my voice, we are truly entwined and wrapped around the same peg, defiantly in tune with each other. You weren’t my first and won’t be my last, but I’ll always remember you as the one I shared everything with, my childhood, and my past. You’ve heard more about me even when you don’t have ears, you’ve seen the person I’ve become and you don’t have eyes to prove it, you’ve spoken to me in times of anxiety, you don’t even have to have a mouth. In times of pure loneliness, you were there, with no arms to hold me and no warmth to warm me. But it was your songs, they played in my head, we brought them to life, even though you are dead.

I should say thank you, even though you aren’t listening, but I’ll say it anyway, since we share the same soul, if I say it to you, then I say it myself. So here, here’s to many more heartbreaks to write about, here’s to many more rooms to fill with people and music, here’s to the many years ahead, and here’s to us, here’s to you. Red.

Dear Younger Daisy

Dear younger Daisy,

First of all, cut that hair off – you don’t like it long and you want it short, just cut it off.

Secondly, when people ask you to do something, always say yes – don’t hesitate, just yes. You’ll open yourself up to greater things if you open up to people. People will be more aware of you and therefore you won’t pass those opportunities when they come for you. “Yes.”

Thirdly, please don’t be scared of yourself, you are who you are – you are great and idiosyncratic. When that girl tells you that you look “weird”, own it – when it is non-uniform, don’t run down to Topshop and buy that dress that you secretly hate, wear that jumper you like from the festival, and those clumpy shoes that you love. Those girls/boys aren’t going to be there when you are happy, and if it “offends their eye” then do it, it only winds them up because you are comfortable in yourself and they are far from comfortable in their own skin.

Now, listen up. There is nothing wrong with you concentrating in class, because you know in the end it is all going to be worth it, if they laugh at you, laugh back because in a few years they’ll be nowhere to be seen and you will be happy. Don’t worry about those girls/boys in the schools that used to make you feel like you were never good enough, you are good enough.

Do not be scared to love, it’s perfectly normal to show emotion and if someone shows it towards you, replenish in it and take them on – don’t hesitate to take that jump that you are just not used to – because it might change you for the better person you are now. Take every chance that comes your way, trust me – your future self lives off of those chances and you might just get free concert tickets in the long run.

Love yourself and take every chance, you are your own person and you should own it – you get further in life than you ever thought you would – trust me. As a person once told me, “You have to learn to love yourself before anyone else can have the chance to love you back.”

Lots of love,

Your older self

Dear Camera

Dear Camera,

The moonlight illuminated the hidden corners of my bedroom, shining its light and casting shadows of people and places that were once everything to me. I felt determined to find you again as my pensive mood created a desire to emulate what used to be, simultaneously saddening me that my neglect towards you has transcended my admiration.

After rummaging through my possessions I eventually found you, concealed in layers of dust and buried under a landfill site of overdue bills and unfinished books. I couldn’t help but feel a strange notion of affinity towards you. The majority of us don’t understand the privilege that you are; you get thrown, forgotten and replaced far too easily yet without you, it’s impossible for history to be created.

I glance at your creations hanging on the walls, exhibiting my life in snapshots, and a surge of loss floods through my bloodstream. The silence in my house haunts me as the echoes of familiar voices ring through the empty rooms, until the realisation that I can’t go back into the past hits and I’m left with nothing but the ticking of the clock. In an odd way, you and I are the same. We’re lost and forgotten and simply existing, not living. Pushing through life by force is not how I intended to live and the desperation to break the curse of my retrospections has reached its peak.

You’re a bitter-sweet notion; a reminder of deep and unforgivable wounds that refuse to fade as pangs of guilt linger, spreading in painful waves throughout my body. Juxtaposed by the warming comfort that you offer, embracing me when the weakening shadows of the witching hour strike.

My two-dimensional, black and white world changed the moment I picked you up, feeling instantly connected to that life again. You display a celluloid reel of flashbacks, reminding me of the day when you captured the sweet scent of candy floss and buoyant music, the blinking lights of fairground rides and the split-second flash of lightening in my mother’s eyes where she was truly happy. You rekindle that time when the sleepy sun was setting and my family and I stood in silence, simply admiring the vast lake before us and the pleasure of one another’s company.

I hope that someday, when your masterpieces become frayed, ripped and smudged, that you still remember me for who I truly am. That you can still capture my undermining flaws and my impulsive habits. That you still see beneath the cynical masquerade and understand the exhaustion that clouds my mind. That you find the power to revive my exhilaration over the smallest of things and remind me of my competence to think and imagine and believe. I thank you for catching my fluctuating identities before my nonchalance misses them. But most importantly, I thank you for rediscovering the three-dimensional girl that was hidden for far too long, getting lost and consumed by endless to-do lists and the mundanity that life so often brings.

With love,


To My Future Boyfriends

Dear Future Boyfriends,

It’s bizarre to think that you’re walking on this planet right now – maybe you’ve even walked past me but the stars didn’t align on that particular occasion (but we both know they will eventually). Maybe you’ve spoken to me; you might find me annoying right now, but one day you won’t. Maybe you’re the boy that sat next to me on the bus this morning, but we were both too lost in our own little worlds of earbuds and music and whether Becky was meeting me in the hall at 8.25 or not. Maybe you’re the boy whose name I never remember but we’ll wind up sitting next to each other in college and find out that we both heart The 1975. Maybe. Maybe we’ll last a few weeks before I realise what an enormous douchebag you are. Maybe we’ll last several months before you discover that I’m a “glass half empty” person. We might even last many years before, out of nowhere, everything crumbles and suddenly what once felt so right feels so…empty. Like it was all for nothing. Is it all for nothing? Cause when you think about it, every single one of your relationships will end. None of them were meant to last. As Queen Lana says, they were born to die.

Except one. The One. The only one that will last forever. That’s what makes it all worthwhile. So maybe this letter should be titled Dear The One (dear one?). Hi. You know nothing about me right now, but one day you’ll know me like I know myself. I don’t even know you’re first name, but in the future, everyday, you’ll inspire me and make me a better person. There are no maybes with you. Because even if, by some unknown force of nature, we lost everything else we hold dear to ourselves in this world, it wouldn’t be the end, because we’d still have each other, and that will be more than enough. Our love story will be so epic that not even one thousand and one novels could be written on the subject (or double that number of Hollywood film adaptations). Whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same. We’ll love each other til death do us part, and even beyond that, when we reach the gates together, we’ll look back upon our lives; our only regret will be that we didn’t meet each other sooner, so that we could spend even longer loving each other.

Dear Stranger

Dear Stranger,

I’m willing to bet you don’t remember me. I’ve got to admit I barely remember you; you’re a fuzzy image of a big black duffle bomber jacket and a scared expression. God, I don’t even remember how old I was when we met.

I had been out for a meal with my family, to the local pizza express that night. I don’t remember much of the meal as what happened after stood out much more for me. We were walking back home, the short five minute walk from town it must have been about 10 when you approached us. You asked if we knew of any internet café’s that would be open, I remember I was young enough to grab my Dad’s hand in a nervous childlike irrational fear.

We told you there weren’t any internet café’s we were aware of in Darlington, let alone any that would be open at 10 at night. You thanked us and we went our separate ways.

We’d got about half a street away when my little brother asked, “Why don’t we let the man come to our house and use our computer?” My parents being my parents immediately agreed and off we went to find you.

Once we found you, one look and I wasn’t scared anymore, but you were. You were on the phone to your mum and you were crying. That’s when you told us your story, you were from Africa, you’d flown to Newcastle and got the train to Darlington. From Darlington you were meant to catch a bus to London in order to get a plane to Canada to join the army, except you had to print off your bus ticket and the machine at the station hadn’t worked. You were terrified, trapped in a small town in the North of England with little money and no way out. We took you home.

I remember the minute you sat down at the computer, got up your ticket and that was the first time I’d seen you smile. I made you a cup of tea which was probably terrible, sorry for that and we stayed up until midnight listening to your stories and telling our own. Your bus was at 1am so my dad walked you down and us kids went to bed.

I knew when you left that I’d never see you again. I don’t think I ever found out where in Africa you’re from or even your name. But I hope you’re okay, I hope you made it to Canada and I hope you’re happy. I also hope you were never deployed into conflict. I hope you stayed in Canada safe and that eventually you were discharged and made it back home to your family. I really wish I could find out if this is so.

I also hope you remember us, this English family who lent you their printer and the little girl who made you that terrible cup of tea.

Love, that little girl.