“We can never establish with certainty what part of our relations with others is the result of our emotions – love, antipathy, charity, or malice – and what part is predetermined by the constant power play among individuals.”
- Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being
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The house was covered with ivy and a cold breeze blew the leaves from the porch.
Dreams are always silent.
Inside, in a dimly lit living room, she watched TV and looked depressed, even though her eyes shone weakly when she saw you coming in.
You noticed the fruit on the table were rotten.
She told you to help yourself in the kitchen to the sweets she cooked, but they were all wet, in the sink, in between dirty dishes.
Then he came in.
The only thing you remember is when he held your hand and you both ran down the steps, out of the house.
Outside all was gray.
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and I can do whatever I want with it. Write any bullshit. Write a story. A name. Flood Or just sing sing sing. Make sense, be a puzzle or not even fit.
omg, I love blogging.
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All my life is on me now, hail the pages turning
And the future’s on the bound, hell don’t know my fury
…
I don’t know what I’m doing, don’t know should I
Change my mind, I can’t decide, there’s too many variations to consider
No thing I do don’t do no thing but bring me more to do,
It’s true, I do imbue my blue unto myself,
I make it bitter
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the season has not arrived just yet…
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“I had never thought words erotic. Sometimes I really do like to talk more than fuck. Sentences. Buckets of this buckets of that and then buckets of this again. The trouble with words is that you can really talk yourself into a corner. Whereas you can’t fuck yourself into a corner.”
- The English Patient, Michael Ondaatje
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suddenly I have the urges to express myself again.
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