Love of love written by the broken hearted, love of life written by the dead.
…and there you have it, another body on the floor surrounded by things that don’t mean much to anyone except to the one who can’t take any of them along.
Make no mistake, those who write long books have nothing to say.Of course those who write short books have even less to say.
Prometheus, thief of light, giver of light, bound by the gods, must have been a book.
Sometimes it’s just silent…No sound at all.’Does that scare you?’Chad nods. ‘Why?’ asks his father.’It’s like something’s waiting.
I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I’m not. No one ever really gets used to nightmares.
Beautiful women are always drawn to men they think will keep them beautiful.
Some people reflect lightSome deflect itYou by some miracleSeem to collect it
Do we miss not only the past but every future the lost past describes? Is that just the nature of missing? All the lost might-have-beens? The certainty that those uncertain futures are gone?
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.
You wouldn’t believe how much harder it’s getting for me to just leave my studio. It’s really sad. In fact these days the only thing that gets me outside is when I say: Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck you. Fuck me. Fuck this. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Do not wake me from this slumber, but be assured that just as I have wept much, I have also wandered many roads with my thoughts.
My dear girl, is it that you are so lonely that you had to create this?
Here then at long last is my darkness. No cry of light, no glimmer, not even the faintest shard of hope to break free across the hold.
Even the brightest magnesium flare can do little against such dark except blind the eyes of the one holding it. Thus one craves what by seeing one has in fact not seen.
Of course real horror does not depend upon the melodrama of shadows or even the conspiracies of night.
And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love. There is only silence.
Maturity, one discovers, has everything to do with the acceptance of ‘not knowing.
The greatest of love letters are always coded for the one and not the many.
Irony? Irony can never be more than our own personal Maginot line; the drawing of it, for the most part, purely arbitrary.
Death, it turns out, is the mother of all conflicts.
Physics depends on a universe infinitely centred on an equals sign.
I want something else. I’m not even sure what to call it anymore except I know it feels roomy and it’s drenched in sunlight and it’s weightless and I know it’s not cheap. It’s probably not even real.
Sublime is something you choke on after a shot of tequila.
Anger is one way to respond to fear. I say one way because responses are categorically multiple.