(no subject)
I keep returning to that same old bookstore. It keeps getting bigger and I wonder where they're getting all of these books. Who's selling them?
I was there, I'd found a few books on European Cult Cinema I'd never seen before, and have no idea how I didn't know about them previously. This is the magic of this store, I end up in one of the cubbyholes; sitting there, my legs covered in books, keeping a running count of how much its all going to cost. I know I can't afford all of these books scattered on and around me, and next time I come here there will be a completely different lot of books, I'll only be able to afford a few of them. And this one I'm leaving behind today, I may never see again; though while I'm holding it, I can feel its importance. This is despair, and I think about how much of it is pointless consumerism.
One of the books that was left behind contained some disturbing photographs, and I read some of the accompanying text, but can't remember. Human torture; someone plastered into a wall while under sedation. an incision around a man's collar. someone reaching in with thier hands to pull flesh away from bone, and inserting a large metal coil around his skeletal abdomen.
Later, at home this torture is covered in video in some documentary on television. The narration sounds like it might be Richard Stanley. Watching the video is more than just disturbing. There's something resembling fear at the back of my mind. Its as if there's something I know... Somebody wants to go outside, this is allowed, but pointless. We run out the front door, down the old wooden steps of the porch and out around the cornfield. Its a bright day, and the weather is very comfortable. Even making it out beyond the cornfield, there will be no one. I doubt we'll ever find somebody.
I was there, I'd found a few books on European Cult Cinema I'd never seen before, and have no idea how I didn't know about them previously. This is the magic of this store, I end up in one of the cubbyholes; sitting there, my legs covered in books, keeping a running count of how much its all going to cost. I know I can't afford all of these books scattered on and around me, and next time I come here there will be a completely different lot of books, I'll only be able to afford a few of them. And this one I'm leaving behind today, I may never see again; though while I'm holding it, I can feel its importance. This is despair, and I think about how much of it is pointless consumerism.
One of the books that was left behind contained some disturbing photographs, and I read some of the accompanying text, but can't remember. Human torture; someone plastered into a wall while under sedation. an incision around a man's collar. someone reaching in with thier hands to pull flesh away from bone, and inserting a large metal coil around his skeletal abdomen.
Later, at home this torture is covered in video in some documentary on television. The narration sounds like it might be Richard Stanley. Watching the video is more than just disturbing. There's something resembling fear at the back of my mind. Its as if there's something I know... Somebody wants to go outside, this is allowed, but pointless. We run out the front door, down the old wooden steps of the porch and out around the cornfield. Its a bright day, and the weather is very comfortable. Even making it out beyond the cornfield, there will be no one. I doubt we'll ever find somebody.