slowly unbutton your chest. one by one: the buttons, the skin, the bones you'll uncover transparent, transpired, transposable. slowly unbutton your chest and listen: it rains there all the time.

revisiting

she came back, and just like the ink fails at the first attempt on a white sheet of paper she hesitated in the first steps of her return. and how she wanted to tell him that that was life: to nestle your arms around someone else's arms. she came back with a pair of scissors in one hand and a clock in the other. a quarter past twelve. she counted nine curls in her hair, then eight, then seven, then six. she had half a day to tell the world - to tell him - that she too wanted a garden like from here to there and randomly spread seeds ignoring the seasons and that she loved winter as much as he did. she counted five, then four, then three. she had a quarter less. a quarter of an hour that could have been a quarter of a minute, of a second, a quarter that could have belonged to them both. she counted two and then one. she came back and said: one day I'll stop measuring time in days and hours and minutes and seconds. a day will be forever. or as long as I want it to be.

o amor é uma cidade a arranhar o céu cinzento

come on skinny love what happened here

picture where you'd like to go

Ayl was a happy inhabitant of the silence that reigns where all vibration is excluded; for her anything that looked likely to break the absolute visual neutrality was a harsh discord; beauty began for her only where the grayness had extinguished even the remotest desire to be anything other than gray. 

How could we understand each other? No thing in the world that lay before our eyes was sufficient do express what we felt for each other, but while I was in a fury to wrest unknown vibrations from things, she wanted to reduce everything to the colorless beyond their ultimate substance.

"Without Colors", Cosmicomics, Italo Calvino

pitcture via hermanas miranda

Longtemps, je me suis couché de bonne heure.

via sabino

Big Ideas (don't get any) from James Houston on Vimeo.

August is a wicked month

arnold odermatt

via steidl

Black Lips "Drugs"

Angst

As humans we spend our time seeking big, meaningful experiences. So the afterlife may surprise you when your body wears out. We expand back into what we really are - which is, by Earth standards, enormous. We stand ten thousand kilometers tall in each of nine dimensions and live with others like us in a celestial commune. When we reawaken in these, our true bodies, we immediately begin to notice that our gargantuan colleagues suffer a deep sense of angst.

Our job is the maintenance and upholding of the cosmos. Universal collapse is imminent, and we engineer wormholes to act as structural support. We labor relentlessly on the edge of cosmic disaster. If we don't execute our jobs flawlessly, the universe will re-collapse. Ours is complex, intricate and important work.

After three centuries of this toil, we have the option to take a vacation. We all choose the same destination: we project ourselves into the tiny, delicate, three-dimensional bodies that we call humans, and we are born onto the resort we call Earth. The idea, on such vacations, is to capture small experiences. On the Earth, we care only about our immediate surroundings. We watch comedy movies. We drink alcohol and enjoy music. We form relationships, fight, break up and start again. When we're in a human body, we don't care about universal collapse - instead, we care only about a meeting of the eyes, a glimpse of bare flesh, the caressing tones of a loved voice, joy, love, light, the orientation of a house plant, the shade of a paint stroke, the arrangement of hair.

These are good vacations that we take on Earth, replete with our little dramas and fusses. The mental relaxation is unspeakably precious to us. And when we're forced to leave by the wearing out of those delicate little bodies, it is not uncommon to see us lying prostrate in the breeze of the solar winds, tools in hand, looking out into the cosmos, wet-eyes, searching for meaningless.

David Eagleman, Sum, Forty tales from the afterlives

call it whatever

friction? fiction? LOVE.

your
       bones
(and mostly your
       skin)
make me
want to write

       p o e m s

but love letters will have to do.

concentrate on sex. leave out the poetry.

Anaïs