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
La damoiselle élue

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

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