YOU, YOU ARE A HISTORY IN RUST

7 days

Yes I Am A Long Way From Home

Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away.– philip k. dick


I have so many things to do, I should get back to work, but all i really want to do is keep listening to mogwai, and pay attention to the world.

Our Last Day As Children

Jacques Derrida in his last interview (with jean birnbaum of le monde) describes a crisis i face nearly daily, myself:


I am at war with myself, it’s true, you couldn’t possibly know to what extent … i know that it is what keeps me alive, and makes me ask precisely … “how does one learn to live?”

We really have nothing to say to each other

Len: Do you believe in God?
Mark: What?
Len: Do you believe in God?
Mark: Who?
Len: God
Mark: God?
Len: Do you believe in God?
Mark: Do i believe in God?
Len: Yes
Mark: Would you say that again?

Harold Pinter on Existentialism

With Tired Eyes,Tired Minds,Tired Souls We Slept

The music of Explosions in the sky and This will destroy you is the only thing that keeps me awake those days. I love the way it makes me feel, like nothing matters,like i am far away. I want to sleep for many days and feel calm and safe but i can't because.... "you have to fight",well i just want... six days at the bottom of the ocean.

I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair

DON'T GO FAR OFF, NOT EVEN FOR A DAY
Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --
because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long and
I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far
I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?


Pablo Neruda