They say love dies between two people. That’s wrong. It doesn’t die. It just leaves you, goes away, if you are not good enough, worthy enough. It doesn’t die; you’re the one that dies. It’s like the ocean: if you’re no good, if you begin to make a bad smell in it, it spews you up somewhere to die. You die anyway, but I had rather drown in the ocean than be urped up onto a strip of dead beach and be dried away by the sun into a little foul smear with no name to it, just This Was for an epitaph.
— Faulkner, The Wild Palms (via williamcuthbertfaulkner)
There was a gray light on the lake and when he heard the loon he knew exactly what it was, he even knew what it would look like, listening to the raucous idiot voice, thinking how man alone of all creatures deliberately atrophies his natural senses and only at the expense of others; how the four-legged animal gains all its information through smelling and seeing and hearing and distrusts all else while the two-legged one believes only what it reads.
— Faulkner, The Wild Palms (via williamcuthbertfaulkner)
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My future is too important to chance it on people who would rather exercise authority rather than common sense.
These tropes are old, but they are all I know
My heart, pinned on your chest
Rips open and I can reach into
my own concave cavity
I made for myself when
you are lonely.
A vaccum I sense across distance from when
space and time became
a collapsed void.
Eaten for breakfast, and vomited before the stars could return
us to heaven.
Instead, we purged to purgatory –
Hell was too mighty
a place- the secure and the known is full of ghosts and wrong doing.
In space, we think to be freedom founders.
But instead of making our own laws
We are aimless in frontier—
As you and I no longer no are strung by
our fictions or words.
Posted October 17, 2011 at 7:22pm
