i just want to pretend that today is not today anymore, and tomorrow is not tomorrow. 

on saturdays we get artsy fartsy and start crafting. i wish this was my thesis.

the world will not bow at your feet
the heavens will not cease to spill their bounty on your head
the wind will not change direction for your sails alone
the rivers will keep flowing steadily south
the stars will continue to shine long after you are gone.

Dostoevsky’s notes for chapter 5 of The Brothers Karamazov.

I know too much 
To be anything any more; 
And if in the distant

Future someone 
Thinks he has once been me 
As I am today,

Let him revise 
His insolent ontology 
Or teach himself to pray.

figleafedition:

It’s morning now 
and my bread is stale
I got it out last night
and lost myself in thought
Forgot to put away the things
that needed to be put away.

—-

My chair has collapsed around me
from the impact
everything about this was comfortable
except for the fall.

‘where do you live?’, they ask.

‘at the end of grace, where all the lights go out’, she said.

Egon Schiele; Four Trees, 1917.

my independence does not allow me to trust things that are easy.

saturday; 453pm.

disappearances happen. pains go phantom. blood stops running and people.. people fade. there is more i have to say, so much more. but that has disappeared too.

The prisoners of infinite choice
Have built their house
In a field below the wood
And are at peace.

It is autumn, and dead leaves
On their way to the river
Scratch like birds at the windows
Or tick on the road.

Somewhere there is an afterlife
Of dead leaves,
A stadium filled with an infinite
Rustling and sighing.

Somewhere in the heaven
Of lost futures
The lives we might have lived
Have found their own fulfilment.