Comfort is beauty muted by heroin. Sadness is beauty drained by lack of it.
Some people are attracted to sickness, to the kind of madness where sparks fly off the head, to the incoherence of despair, masked by nervous energy, which winds up looking like bewildered joy.
Always, everywhere, the world is filled with collisions.
If time stood still, and we could choose thetime, the best time,then love withoutpain would be all I know.
You're beautiful, but you're somewhere else. That's okay. I can handle that. But we won't continue as friends, not just now. I like you as a lover, not a friend.
All summer it feels as if it will rain soon. All summer the strange feeling, 'something will break.
I'm hurling all the little joys against the greater sadness. The sadness is a giant weight. It presses down. Its mean: What's the point?
I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act.
Everything comes to nothing in the end, I suppose. Or at least, nothing happens exactly the way we imagine it.
What passes relentlessly through the years is blood, and time; all the bitterness or warmth along the way is almost incidental. Even blood gets forgotten eventually, bleached into myth which are bleac...
It was all about eyes, the truth.
If I could find someone to blame, perhaps I could get angry. Anything would be better than this sadness, this sense of regret for events that were never mine.
And I come to realise that all my small todays, the way I act, will lead into my tomorrows.
What everyone fails to notice, when talking to the other humans, to mothers and lovers and strangers in the streeet, is the one obvious point: 'future corpse, future corpse.
Love could be fractured and serve different purposes, and that intense love could be divided, between people just as easily as between moments of time.
His eyes are huge and black. I think about desire. There are flickerings that occur, and we know very little about them. Millimetres of dilation are words in a language.
For every gain there is a sacrifice, and the removal of the parasite sometimes entails removal of the host.
When you talk about love, and family, invariably too you are talking about compassion. This would include the notion that we are all just lumped together, and tolerance is a virtue.
Very quickly I begin to understand the selfishness of my love, the inappropriateness of my relationships, when I realise that every time I fuck it feels as if I am wrestling with demons.
In the act itself there is a point at which a light that comes from nowhere starts flickering like a strobe. What happens is not exactly a hallucination. But it wells up from deep in the earth and pou...