bebezeva:

I suddenly realize that that the single way artists cope with their own insanity is through the process of manifesting their emotions, thoughts, bizarre paradigms and respective shifts as aesthetic objects that can be sensed by the body and soul. Given that logical premise, I would argue that ego…

Calling our ethical discomfort art is like stylishly justifying our human illness – it is unnecessary and impossible.

alone

it was another late night in the parking lot. snow sprinkled all around him, and he clutched at himself for warmth. beyond, past, and through the buildings, the darkness elongated forever. somehow he had convinced himself that it was going to be a short jaunt.

he had to be nearing the end, he figured. but only literally, though; metaphor is powerless. and to be frank, he thought of himself as probably being more in the middle of things right now.

something compelled him to turn around. behind him was a car, idling in a different, nearby parking lot. a tall, young-looking man was standing next to the car, holding something small at about chest level. the headlights were on.

"there will be worse times than this," he yelled at the man. his voice, suddenly lost, dropped to a mere shout. "there have been before." his words echoed back to him, and the voice sounded so unlike his own. for a moment, he wasn’t sure if the man had shouted back, or why; was he mocking him? agreeing with him?

he was all alone. he didn’t know if that was true.

“in my basement data-haven is a black-bag filled with garbage market beef and i swear to stego it’s an unclassified utopia”

IT GOES LIKE THIS:

angry-comics:

24 hour comic from yesterday, completed in 19 hours. it is about being extremely sick. full comic under the cut.

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“his eyes locked with hers. tell me why i am alive, they begged. she walked away.”

stop

eric truly believed himself to be a patient person. the clock hanging on the restaurant wall had failed to move any of its hands for a single second, leaving him to guess it had probably been about 15 minutes that he’d been waiting. if his phone hadn’t been stolen he would know for sure, but it had been stolen, and so he had been guessing. he really wished he had a watch.

the clusters of people stocking up the booths and tables around him conversed in a steady hum, their pitch collectively rising and falling like a metronome. you could keep time like that, he figured, if you were a fucking nerd. it was way easier to go off the number of songs that had played over the speakers, four so far. songs are usually about three and a half minutes long, right?

eric noticed that his hands had been steepled together in the same position for basically as long as he had been waiting - fingers interlocked, palms inward, thumbs arched skyward. he glanced up at the clock, still dead, and started counting the ticks out loud, as if the second hand was really moving. he drummed his fingers on the tabletop to the beat of the music, which was coincidentally also the beat of his ticks. his phone, in someone else’s pocket, read 23:37 p.m.

terminal

it was hard for richard to fathom how empty everything felt; it was harder for him to care. it was simply not empty here. in the back of his skull, richard registered that he was there to pick someone up. soon, he thought.

cars were scattered through the streets and parking lot, and people milled themselves across terminals, down stairs, and through baggage claims. he knew this because he could hear these things happening.

in front of richard’s skull were lights. his phone was silently geocaching his location as the hector international airport in fargo, north dakota. tonight, he had been told, was a beautiful night.

the lights were silent. everything was silent now. richard kept walking along the sidewalk. nothing called out to him from the darkness; nothing beckoned him forward. his phone screen read 23:37 p.m.

in my boredom, i am ordinary

terrence malick shot all of ‘the new world’ in the golden hour. it looks about that time of day, the sky turning gold and red, me sitting on a frontage road while cars criss-cross the highway behind me. they also call it the magic hour, possibly because they want to believe that moments of great beauty are the closest we come to touching the mythical. i hear a bird next to me, pecking at the ground for worms. it lets me pet it. its fur is rough. well, they say malick always was a bit too eccentric for his own good. the bird flies away.

lucia joyce, ‘dotter of her father’s eyes.’ i imagine there were chirps i couldn’t hear in a tree somewhere; that’s where the bird flew off to. lucia joyce was supposedly capable of one day dancing better than her father could write. imagine that if you can, being so good you can float across a stage, leaving awed looks in your wake. too bad lucia got locked up in a sanitarium.

hmm. i didn’t see the bird get any worms.

"you ever consider," frank said, "the reason they call you a girl is because they’re afraid to face a woman?"

my butt hurts. raymond chandler said that talent competes with all the hosts of the living and the dead. in my boredom, i am ordinary.