i'm quite normal until i go mad

7.11.13

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Did you study poetry at all?

Hell no, I detest most poetry. Ancient, modern. I can’t read it, I can’t stomach it. I just stay away from all academic training. I try to stay away from poets. And short story writers. And novelists. I’d rather get drunk with a plumber. Or even a cop.


More Sublime, Charles Bukowski (via Beautiful Voices Project)

the light bulb swinging like a metronome

3.11.13

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slipping away
disappear, disappear
tell nobody

the only thing is not to melt in the meanwhile

3.11.13

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I don't know why we live - the gift of life comes to us from I don't know what source or for what purpose; but I believe we can go on living for the reason that (always of course up to a certain point) life is the most valuable thing we know anything about and it is therefore presumptively a great mistake to surrender it while there is any yet left in the cup.


Henry James: Selected Letters (via Letters of Note)

Oh, how they come and go

31.10.13

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Betty said she prayed today
For the sky to blow away
Or maybe stay
She wasn't sure.

without

31.10.13

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And I sit here without identity: faceless.
My head aches.

The Unabridged Journals, Sylvia Plath

a self, every moment it exists, is in a process of becoming

29.10.13

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for the self [kata dynamin - potentially] is not present actually, it is merely what is to come into existence. in so far, then, as the self does not become itself, it is not itself; but to not be oneself is exactly despair.


The Sickness Unto Death, Søren Kierkegaard