Everything I do is in preparation of one final gesture: dying gracefully: without panic or regret; indifferent, with no feeling of loss or hope for ultimate gain. All philosophizing and pursuits of knowledge and wisdom are priming my consciousness so that, when I know I am dying, I will pass contented.

Truthful-sounding words are borne of the acknowledgement that words can contain no truth.

Time for PRINTEST!


( Read more... )

Finding the space between things that have been done and said seems to be the postmodern ideal.

Multipurpose party Auburn House to(Saturday)night. Come one and all. Leave your rowdiness at home unless it's the favorable sort. Good happiness.

I want everyone who reads this to ask me 3 questions, no more no less.

Ask me anything you want and I will answer it.

Then, I want you to go to your journal,

copy and paste this

allowing your friends (including myself) to ask you anything.

---

END

Someone take away my DAMN FUCK IT thing please. I am wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong again. No reconcile, reconcile, no no no no none. There are things in me that want to wither. Okay!

It is my inclination to describe the "difficulty" of being. This very quickly begins to seem inappropriate, however, and it seems closer to give a more indifferent description: being is sobering, the reflection on which evokes a calm sort of panic, where everything seems simultaneously right and wrong, pleasant and unbearable, awesome and boring.

The platinum smoke was dancing slow in the quiet light of the still afternoon. The music pained it; it writhed and twisted with no particular urgency ( Read more... )

reminder ( Read more... )