" I believe the moment is at hand when, by a paranoiac and active advance of mind, it will be possible (simultaneously with automatism and other passive states) to systematize confusion and thus to help discredit completely the world of reality"
- Salvador Dali, La Femme Invisble, 1930
1:12 am • 4 November 2013 • 18 notes
From Walt Whitman - Crossing Brooklyn Ferry
The impalpable sustenance of me from all things at all hours of the day,
The simple, compact, well-join’d scheme, myself disintegrated, every one disintegrated yet part of the scheme,
The similitudes of the past and those of the future,
The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings, on the walk in the street and the passage over the river,
The current rushing so swiftly and swimming with me far away,
The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them,
The certainty of others, the life, love, sight, hearing of others.
Others will enter the gates of the ferry and cross from shore to shore,
Others will watch the run of the flood-tide,
Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east,
Others will see the islands large and small;
Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high,
A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them,
Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring-in of the flood-tide, the falling-back to the sea of the ebb-tide.
4:01 am • 25 October 2013 • 1 note
Late Fragment - Raymond Carver
And did you get what you wanted from this life, even so? I did. And what did you want? To call myself beloved, to feel myself beloved on the earth.
3:14 am • 25 October 2013 • 1 note
WAITIN’ AROUND TO DIE - TOWNES VAN ZANDT I guess I’ll keep on gambling, lots of booze and lots of rambling. It’s easier than just waitin’ around to die.
this is the best recording of this song
4:34 am • 28 August 2013 • 108 notes
“Every reader, as he reads, is actually the reader of himself. The writer’s work is only a kind of optical instrument he provides the reader so he can discern what he might never have seen in himself without this book. The reader’s recognition in himself of what the book says is the proof of the book’s truth.”
— Marcel Proust
9:00 pm • 23 August 2013 • 6 notes