Youth always tries to fill the void, an old man learns to live with it.
To read” actually comes from the Latin reri “to calculate, to think” which is not only the progenitor of “read” but of “reason” as well, both of which hail from the Greek arariskein “to fit.” Aside from giving us “reason,” arariskein also gives us an unlikely sibling, Latin arma meaning “weapons.” It seems that “to fit” the world or to make sense of it requires either reason or arms.
Is it possible to love something so much, you imagine it wants to destroy you only because it has denied you?
Of course curiosity killed the cat, and even if satisfaction supposedly brought it back, there’s still that little problem with the man on the radio telling me more and more about some useless information.
Unoccupied space will never cease to change simply because nothing forbids it to do so.
Stars to live by. Stars to steer by. Stars to die by.
Our newness lies only in parts rearranged.
There is no such thing as the last straw. There is only hay.
I miss you. I love you. There’s no second I’ve lived you can’t call your own.
But tomorrow came faster than expected, as if the future were never somewhere else, but all along part of the fabric of every present, merely untwining itself again and again into a new distinction that could never be new again.
Sometimes how you talk is all you got. Even if your talk is wrong.
Hopefully you’ll be able to make sense of what I can represent though still fail to understand.
To repeat: her voice has life. It possesses a quality not present in the original, revealing how a nymph can return a different and more meaningful story, in spite of telling the same story.
Immensely clever story, and quite creepy, in a delightfully scary way.
I’m so tired. Sleep’s been stalking me for too long to remember. Inevitable I suppose.
The thread has snapped. No sound even to mark the breaking let alone the fall. That long anticipated disintegration, when the darkest angel of all, the horror beyond all horrors, sits at last upon my chest, permanently enfolding me in its great covering wings, black as ink, veined in Bees’ purple. A creature without a voice. A voice without a name. As immortal as my life. Come here at long last to summon the wind.
Irony? Irony can never be more than our own personal Maginot line; the drawing of it, for the most part, purely arbitrary.
For some reason, I’ve been thinking more and more about my mother and the way her life failed her, humiliated her with impulses beyond her command, broke her with year after year of the same.
Not only had Navidson carried Karen out of that house, he had picked her up a hundred times over the course of eleven years and carried her fear, her torment, and her distance.
If one invests some interest in, for example, a tree and begins to form some thoughts about this tree then writes these thoughts down, further examining the meanings that surface, allowing for unconscious associations to take place, writing all this down as well, until the subject of the tree branches off into the subject of the shelf, that person will enjoy immense psychological benefits.