what's up with the french spelling it that way? when will they learn? or stop wearing those hats?
the first underground stop on the manhattan bound seven train, you can still see sunlight at the far end of the platform.
it is a funny thing, to move at high dark speed through the tunnels. it is somewhat akin to burrowing, but the holes are already there. perhaps it is what blood would feel. perhaps every citizen of manhattan is a tiny little red blood cell, and with all our fleeting glances and shuffling feet we bring oxygen into the great lungs of the city.
at rush hour the city heaves, at dawn it is asleep, breath shallow and light.
i am a disease. a virus. when i step onto the train the system shudders, heaves a great sigh of sickness.
but i am not so bad. luckily for them, i cannot replicate. i move through miles and miles of organic track, a little flickering anomaly that infects its immediate environment and then disappears, letting rent tissure become untorn.
but none of you like hearing about our sickness. for those of us who are not lusted, posts of grime and degree are only met with apathetic passing. (although i am sure we are better for the lack.)
on that note, things are well. i talked the other night. with long and lithe i languished in her luster. and am now better for the loss.
so many times i have tried to start the one journal. the uber-thought. in “sans-soleil”, the filmmaker said, "i cannot fathom how people remember who do not film or take pictures." writing is not a picture. it is not a representation, but the thing itself. when i look back upon what i have written, i see not who i was, but this disembodied thing. i see only that. that was the reason that i destroyed all the writing archives on my site.
the main problem is that i have had nothing really to say.
okay, that is a complete lie. yesterday i was thinking about heaven, and confronting the atheists’ thought of “is this all there is?” i looked down a perfect avenue, three unbroken miles of early morning life. the air was crisp, fresh. the light gave everything an inner radiance, all the way down to the hotdog vendor’s metallic stand adopting an unearthly glow. perhaps it is not so hard to make a heaven of this hell after all.
in any event, for now, this is all there is. Quid Erat Denotem.
(i know nick. i know.)
r.
it is a funny thing, to move at high dark speed through the tunnels. it is somewhat akin to burrowing, but the holes are already there. perhaps it is what blood would feel. perhaps every citizen of manhattan is a tiny little red blood cell, and with all our fleeting glances and shuffling feet we bring oxygen into the great lungs of the city.
at rush hour the city heaves, at dawn it is asleep, breath shallow and light.
i am a disease. a virus. when i step onto the train the system shudders, heaves a great sigh of sickness.
but i am not so bad. luckily for them, i cannot replicate. i move through miles and miles of organic track, a little flickering anomaly that infects its immediate environment and then disappears, letting rent tissure become untorn.
but none of you like hearing about our sickness. for those of us who are not lusted, posts of grime and degree are only met with apathetic passing. (although i am sure we are better for the lack.)
on that note, things are well. i talked the other night. with long and lithe i languished in her luster. and am now better for the loss.
so many times i have tried to start the one journal. the uber-thought. in “sans-soleil”, the filmmaker said, "i cannot fathom how people remember who do not film or take pictures." writing is not a picture. it is not a representation, but the thing itself. when i look back upon what i have written, i see not who i was, but this disembodied thing. i see only that. that was the reason that i destroyed all the writing archives on my site.
the main problem is that i have had nothing really to say.
okay, that is a complete lie. yesterday i was thinking about heaven, and confronting the atheists’ thought of “is this all there is?” i looked down a perfect avenue, three unbroken miles of early morning life. the air was crisp, fresh. the light gave everything an inner radiance, all the way down to the hotdog vendor’s metallic stand adopting an unearthly glow. perhaps it is not so hard to make a heaven of this hell after all.
in any event, for now, this is all there is. Quid Erat Denotem.
(i know nick. i know.)
r.