She seems so cool, so focused, so quiet, yet her eyes remain fixed upon the horizon. You think you know all there is to know about her immediately upon meeting her, but everything you think you know is wrong. Passion flows through her like a river of blood.

She only looked away for a moment, and the mask slipped, and you fell. All your tomorrows start here.

—Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders (via petrichour)

It’s like a son hadn’t seen his traveler father since he born to wear a prestige suit or whatever, while his mother told him that his father told her to tell him that he loves you and he have to be “righteous” to take him to live abroad with and to live him a welfare life he didn’t dreamed of, but the problem not that the problem is her mother found out to be a whore and she discovered this story a pity on her crying child while she cry over to the unknown future of her child and after the child grown up he think out of his father visual and audible bias! and he can’t say now that he can reach his father without a go-between because his father obviously did or say that he’s love because that’s just a pain killer and over love is just a chemical reactions so if he is love then he is a pseudo one, whatever the son doesn’t give a fuck now because “he” his father become to be a party fodder and useless and he wish if he exist he has no excuse at all.

Don’t touch me! Don’t question me! Don’t speak to meStay with me!

Changing ourselves. Surely that must be what we’re after when we look at pictures and watch movies and listen to music. It sounds more Californian than it really is. Changing ourselves includes switching on the radio when we’re bored — to change from being someone who’s bored to someone who’s being less bored, or bored in a different way. But of course we would prefer to think that the art we venerate does more than feed us sensations to keep us from the gloom of everyday existence. (Why would I prefer that? What’s wrong with the opposite? I remember someone saying that all human creativity is a desperate attempt to occupy the brief space or endless gap between birth and death.) We would like to think that art remakes us in some way, deepens us, makes us ‘better’ people.

Brian Eno’s diary reflections on art

Pair with art as therapy.

(via explore-blog)

(Source: , via explore-blog)

Half stories


I’m tired of those half stories. Of those half lovers. Of not going all the way. Of being careful and indifferent. Of not having you in my life. Of not having ‘a’ you in my life. Of reminiscing about our days together and how perfect everything could have been. Of those irrelevant half stories that never end up into anything. I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m always tired.