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Another Prop To Occupy Your Time
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 10th, 2011|11:38 am] |
| [ | music |
| | Cut Copy - Pharaohs & Pyramids | ] |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 3rd, 2011|07:10 pm] |
"We only asked for leopards to guard our thinning dreams."
The problem with reading Bukowski is that it just makes me want to get unfathomably drunk. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 15th, 2010|01:51 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  strange | ] |
"I'm quite emotionally unstable you know, I get myself over-the-top happy sometimes. The more you block things out the more numb you become in the heart you know, you get to a point where happiness to you is just like, you know, neither here nor there."
Raoul Moat |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 22nd, 2010|11:24 pm] |
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There is a sort of waking nightmare that sets in sometimes when one has missed a sleep or two, a feeling that comes with extreme fatigue and a new sun, that the quality of the life around has changed. It is a fully articulate conviction that somehow the existence one is then leading is a branch shoot of life and is related to life only as a moving picture or a mirror — that the people, and streets, and houses are only projections from a very dim and chaotic past. |
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| Your purple prose just gives you away |
[Mar. 9th, 2010|05:08 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | Wide-eyed and open-mouthed | ] |
There are few of us who have not sometimes wakened before dawn, either
after one of those dreamless nights that make us almost enamoured of
death, or one of those nights of horror and misshapen joy, when through
the chambers of the brain sweep phantoms more terrible than reality
itself, and instinct with that vivid life that lurks in all grotesques,
and that lends to Gothic art its enduring vitality, this art being, one
might fancy, especially the art of those whose minds have been troubled
with the malady of reverie. Gradually white fingers creep through the
curtains, and they appear to tremble. In black fantastic shapes, dumb
shadows crawl into the corners of the room and crouch there. Outside,
there is the stirring of birds among the leaves, or the sound of men
going forth to their work, or the sigh and sob of the wind coming down
from the hills and wandering round the silent house, as though it
feared to wake the sleepers and yet must needs call forth sleep from
her purple cave. Veil after veil of thin dusky gauze is lifted, and by
degrees the forms and colours of things are restored to them, and we
watch the dawn remaking the world in its antique pattern. The wan
mirrors get back their mimic life. The flameless tapers stand where we
had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been
studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the
letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often.
Nothing seems to us changed. Out of the unreal shadows of the night
comes back the real life that we had known. We have to resume it where
we had left off, and there steals over us a terrible sense of the
necessity for the continuance of energy in the same wearisome round of
stereotyped habits, or a wild longing, it may be, that our eyelids
might open some morning upon a world that had been refashioned anew in
the darkness for our pleasure, a world in which things would have fresh
shapes and colours, and be changed, or have other secrets, a world in
which the past would have little or no place, or survive, at any rate,
in no conscious form of obligation or regret, the remembrance even of
joy having its bitterness and the memories of pleasure their pain. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 2nd, 2009|01:37 pm] |
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The best thing about trudging to work in the snow is that people are more likely to smile at you, just because the weather is different. |
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stephens's journal
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