slow moving trains

I said kiss me, you're beautiful, these are truly the last days. You grabbed my hand and we fell into it. Like a daydream, or a fever.

. . .

time is relentlessly and endlessly slipping through your fingers. i thought i told you this. you let your life pass you by so easily, carelessly, thoughtlessly. this moment, right now, is the only thing you can ever truly have and be sure of it. there is no more to life than your present. the past and the future are nonexistent entities in the mind.

i have always tried my hardest to let you know that i am here for you. i care, i am willing to listen. i would sacrifice anything to make you smile, to hold your hand and help transfer warmth to your body from mine, to share any part of me with you.

you do not value that. you do not want any part of me present anywhere.

i wish i could sign off of life indefinitely and deactivate myself, make myself unreachable by all things, distance myself so far from the closest familiarity that i forget what it feels like

disappointment. every try is an empty end.

. . .

listening to Godspeed You! Black Emperor these days. there are echoes and hollow spaces and secret corners and shimmery feedback and wailing twilight trains rolling down the line and empty grass fields with towers antennas lights and ruins

the world grows back over humans and only our hideous reflections remain

highways to nowhere

"Bleak, Uncertain, Beautiful..." (F# A# ∞) 8:20
"Gathering Storm" (Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas To Heaven) 20:40

. . .

me, me, me, me they will lead far away from the country

laying in the golden field that exists in the back of my consciousness. my very own end of the world.

. . .

maybe in debussy there is the only beauty i have really found in this world.



whole tone and hexatonic scales. modes and their transpositions. interval patterns and scale collections. the universe contained in sprawling arrangements of notes and lines

String Quartet
Proses lyriques
Sarabande
La damoiselle élue
Préludes

Debussy existed before Debussy. It is an architecture which moves upside down in water, clouds which form and disperse, branches which slumber, rain on the leaves, plums which in falling kill themselves and bleed gold - everything that only murmured or stammered before a human voice came to give it expression. A thousand vague marvels at last found their interpreter.

- Jean Cocteau

. . .

going to keep climbing the mountain. will you be the sherpa to help guide me to the summit, to bear the burden of those things which i cannot bear alone? my pains, troubles, thoughts, whimsical ideas and desires. i imagine you following me from base camp onwards, sleeping beside me in the tent covered in your wools and furs, shielding me from blistering cold winds. your face is warm and shiny and red and i feel filled up the second i look at you. when i die, you will hold me and lay me to rest with care as if you were a child holding a baby lamb. you will guard my space in the ground forever, and i will be welcomed back by the dirt and earth which i loved so much in life

thank you for being the self i couldn't be alone

vide

b o r i s

at last

~

i saw them last night and had the time of my life. they played with such calm, but an unrestrainable energy broiled right underneath the surface of their massive and loud vibrating noise. i was filled with this energy and could feel it seeping through my veins as i watched, it was a spiritual experience fueled simply by sound. their amplifiers stood monolithic behind the ghostly silhouettes of their bodies tethered to the ground only by guitars and drums. multicolored smoke filled the dark room and obscured the details of reality, all i could see before me were three dark figures, blasting me onto other planes of existence with sounds that resonated through every cell i possess. i have never felt so swept up with emotion and energy in my life; all at once youthful and reckless, completely rebellious and ridiculous, as beautiful as the most ancient of wonders on earth and as open as the heart of that which is completely at peace. i left with the desire to go back night after night and be bathed, numbed in their reverberating waves of sound for eternity.

it was pretty amazing, let's just leave it at that.

~

at the drive-in: relationship of command



mamoru fujieda (藤枝守): patterns of plants



boris: everything





i'm sorry, but i don't trust you.
i'm sorry, but i have to go.

i turn 21 in a week oh jesus god please why everyone i used to care about is completely gone isn't it weird how so many people that used to be included in my life are now nowhere to be found as if they were wiped off the face of the earth why the fuck

~

i let my body accumulate goosebumps and i run my fingers over exposed flesh cold and hard but also soft and warm is anything really being accomplished outside of the time i am gathering in my arms and holding onto dearly, grudgingly, taking up my burden to bear because that is how life has explained itself to me. an impossibly long episode of gaining time, monotonous like the eerily perfect ticking of a clock eyes staring at me from a white wall, gazing fixed gaze soulless like the masses who surround me without my consent

~

you left me like you didn't leave all the others i am alone and you see me through perfectly clear glass and my condition is known to you. unsurprisingly time moves relentlessly onward and cells renew themselves fast and slow, ebb and flow, my body is not the same body you touched but you are the same shell i grope for in the night when the lights are off and i cannot find my way. your voice is permanently locked in a door always beyond my reach the echo of your last words ringing in a timeless loop i wish to make a song out of it and then smash it on the floor

~

i slide my fingers inside myself without desire but through necessity i find myself in a place that belongs to no one

~

the world is a fun fun fun slideshow in which i watch delicate fine tuned disasters occur anonymously from a dangerous distance