good or bad, handsome or ugly, rich or poor, they are all equal now.

Я люблю Сашy

by Sasha

From Philip Larkin's "Church Going"

A serious house on serious earth it is,
In whose blent air all our compulsions meet,
Are recognized, and robed as destinies.
And that much never can be obsolete,
Since someone will forever be surprising
A hunger in himself to be more serious,
And gravitating with it to this ground,
Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in,
If only that so many dead lie round.

i'll wait up for that noise

when you're little, your whole life is up

Joseph Conrad, "Heart of Darkness"

"Droll thing life is--that mysterious arrangement of merciless logic for a futile purpose. The most you can hope from it is some knowledge of yourself--that comes too late--a crop of unextinguishable regrets. I have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpable grayness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamour, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid skepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still last in that of your adversary. If such is the form of ultimate wisdom, then life is a greater riddle than some of us think it to be."

And the swans are all huddled together

Going on 25

(How can people live such long lives?)

skin bag full of bones

It isn't emptiness, per se.





I like babies because they remind me that I'm an animal.
I like cats and dogs because they don't talk.

If I were an alien, I wonder what I'd think of humans, of mankind. I try to pretend, and all I can imagine feeling is pity, the alien equivalent of clicking my tongue. But I guess it depends.

Cultivate your forgettableness. The aptness to be forgotten is a skill. Disappear from the memories of others swiftly, softly, in a way that makes oafs out of whispers. Stretch out inside the sticky suit of shadow, lengthen your fingers, arch your back and twist like a cat. Bruise your ego, the contusions sink swimmingly; let yourself hemmorrhage away in wisps. The outside will be like grayish puss, you'll be a thing that doesn't fester, but doesn't heal. You'll be mucous, a dreaming blob. Drip silent drops into brains passing by, drops that add to fluid without adding mass, displacing nothing. You'll be everyone eventually, but nobody will be you.