Sometimes I think I can expiate all my past and future sins through the aching of my bones.
Everybody's bones are just holy branches cast from trees to cut patterns in the world. And in time we find some shelter, spill our leaves, and then sleep in the earth. And when we're there, we'll belong, 'cause the earth don't give a damn if you're lost.
Life alone can rekindle life.
When she is alone in the rooms I hear her humming to keep herself from thinking.
I went walking around the city some more, people watching with a cold, blank stare. And I saw your face in everyone, I swear.
But I tried, didn't I? Goddamnit, at least I did that.
There is an objective reality in which my body and mind are one. But I am not here and never have been.
Where exactly do you put your hands on somebody who hurts everywhere?
Every so often something shatters like ice and we are in the river of our existence. We are aware.
Sleepwalking down the hall like a firefly in the fog.
Timor mortis conturbat me. The fear of death disturbs me.
I will be dying and so will you, and so will everyone here. That's what I want to explore. We're all hurtling towards death, yet here we are for the moment, alive. Each of us knowing we're going to die, each of us secretly believing we won't.
The end is built into the beginning.
There has to be pain. That's the rule.
I can feel this heart inside me and I conclude it exists. I can touch this world and I also conclude that it exists. All my knowledge ends at this point. The rest is hypothesis.
I am more uncertain than I ever was; I feel only the power of life. And I am senselessly empty.
The lives of most people are small tight pallid and sad, more to be mourned than their deaths. We starve at the banquet: We cannot see that there is a banquet because seeing the banquet requires that we see also ourselves sitting there starving-seeing ourselves clearly, even for a moment, is shattering. We are not dead but asleep, dreaming of ourselves.
Her life-that was the only chance she had-the short season between two silences.
We can know ourselves only because we can remember.
If I said any more it would just be a lie; you can't use words to corral something this wild.
Silence is also conversation.
We must just stay awake and see evil done for a little while it's not always.
Well time has a way of throwing it all in your face. The past, she is haunted, the future is laced.
I asked what you love, you said, 'Anything with words.'
It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.
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