One year.
Most days it’s all right.
But being here just brings back too many memories.
“She’s sleeping outside your room. So I guess she must be missing you…”
The Disreputable History
We tried to warn you but...oh, dear...
Every time one human kicks the bucket at least two more of the fuckers are created somewhere else. The experts think we come together in pairs because of biological programming. Survival of the species, but they’re wrong.
The truth is human beings have a terror of loneliness. They couple up and make babies in the vain hope that they’ll never be alone again. But not me. Me, I’ve evolved. I don’t need anyone else.
Prolonged contact with another human being breaks me out in hives. Intimacy?Fucking yuck. And why am I like this? Because people like you need people like me to stay alone and sober so that we’ll patch you up when you’re broken and when you can’t be patched up anymore. I may not be in the race, I may even be a miserable sod, but I can generally get to your doorstep in under eight minutes.
So bring on another day.
(via a-marauder-blog)
(via 4remy)
Time stopped.
He came to me. The Ellimist.
The puppet master came to watch my final act. It figured. He was in his saintly old man guise. As fake as everything else about him. The all-powerful weakling. The mighty manipulator.
“You,” I said accusingly.
“Yes.”
“Who are you?” I demanded. “Who are you to play games with us? You appear, you disappear, you use us, who are you, what are you?”
And then,for what seemed like a very long time, the Ellimist told me. I saw. I understood.
But I also knew he would not save me. That he couldn’t under the arcane rules of his millenia-long war with Crayak.
The Ellimist was there to honor me, and I guess that was nice of him. Wasn’t going to help me much.
I wanted so much to live. I wanted so much to stay and not leave. In a moment, no answer would matter to me, but just the same, I wanted to know what I guess any dying person wants to know.
“Answer this, Ellimist: Did I … did I make a difference? My life, and my…my death…was I worth it? Did my life really matter?”
“Yes,” he said. “You were brave. You were strong. You were good. You mattered.”
“Yeah. Okay, then. Okay, then.”
I wondered if -
extremely loud and incredibly close.
by anditslove.
(via booklover)
To put it in a nutshell, he was afflicted with a love of literature. It was the fatal nature of this disease to substitute a phantom for reality.
(Source: formerly-enchants-blog, via booklover)
(via fuckyeahbeatles-blog)
Tim Burton’s Tricks and Treats
Malgosia Bela, Evelina Mambetova and Sophie Srej photographed by Tim Walker for Harper’s Bazaar UK, October 2009
(via bohemea)
But above all let there be pleasure. Let there be textural delight, let there be silken words and flinty words and sodden speeches and soaking speeches and crackling utterance and utterance that quivers and wobbles like rennet. Let there be rapid firecracker phrases and language that oozes like a lake of lava. Words are your birthright. Unlike music, painting, dance and raffia work, you don’t have to be taught any part of language or buy any equipment to use it, all the power of it was in you from the moment the head of daddy’s little wiggler fused with the wall of mummy’s little bubble. So if you’ve got it, use it. Don’t be afraid of it, don’t believe it belongs to anyone else, don’t let anyone bully you into believing that there are rules and secrets of grammar and verbal deployment that you are not privy to. Don’t be humiliated by dinosaurs into thinking yourself inferior because you can’t spell broccoli or moccasins. Just let the words fly from your lips and your pen. Give them rhythm and depth and height and silliness. Give them filth and form and noble stupidity. Words are free and all words, light and frothy, firm and sculpted as they may be, bear the history of their passage from lip to lip over thousands of years. How they feel to us now tells us whole stories of our ancestors.
(Source: fuckyeahstephenfry-blog)