Cimetière du Père-Lachaise, Oscar Wilde.
‘ And alien tears will fill for him Pity’s long-broken urn, For his mourners will be outcast men, And outcasts always mourn. ‘ – Dorian Grey.
Daniel Libeskind – Jewish Museum (Copenhagen)
a soul is not given. but everyone can find a pine cone in the face, sense malice in a crowd, enjoy the greatest fulfillment of translating the vitality of a radish into the world-picture at the expenses of ruinina, humanity on which the future production of cradles and atonement depends.
the best makes and disguises bestowed on those whose time is not running, but instead are always coming home, they have the passion for roaming the Siberian forest, where Puskin’s deported assassin is still trying to perform the last gesture
- though the former is alive – the latter is long dead
‘our lives disconnect and reconnect, we move on, and later we may again touch one another, again bounce away. this is the felt shape of a human life, neither simply linear nor wholly disjunctive nor endlessly bifurcating, but rather this bouncey-castle sequence of bumpings-into and tumblings-apart. ‘
why do we have a mind if not to explore on the very ideas and modifications that meditates on it?
it appears that action, though colloquial, can never seem to synchronize to secrete my true feelings.
they are all perhaps strangely familiar to me, not classified nor delineated, as i have imagined them as patterns.
feelings; lights shine, violins whine, love me do
i still have my feet on the ground, i’m just wearing nicer shoes while i’m at it.