December 2010
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biclas:
“To love somebody is to rot in your own imperfections.” -Bernardo Nunez
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Enough already, these words lose themselves to meaning.
They will lock you in a room, where you will write many many pages.
Locked inside of a room, cognitive walls, cognitive prisons.
Nausea, be sure to site your sources.
In the middle of this room there is a bucket.
Filled with what?
Filled with vomit, filled with you.
Thought is only borrowed vomit.
Truth is the flies gathering before...
“But how describe the world seen without a self? There are no words. Blue, red- even they distract, they hide with thickness instead of letting the light through. How describe or say anything in articulate words again? - save that it fades, save that it undergoes a gradual transformation, becomes, even in the course of one short walk, habitual - this scene also. Blindness returns as one...
“On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points; who whispers as he whispered to me that summer morning in the house where the corn comes up to the window, ‘the willow grows on the turf by the river. the gardeners sweep with great brooms and the lady sits writing.’ Thus he directed me to that which is beyond and outside out own predicament; to that which is...
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