عزیزم دوستت دارم

Memory is the source for your creation. You can’t create unless you have something inside yourself.

On devrait établir le degré de vérité d’une religion d’après le cas qu’elle fait du Démon: plus elle lui accorde une place éminente, plus elle témoigne qu’elle se soucie du réel, qu’elle se refuse aux supercheries et au mensonge, qu’elle est sérieuse, qu’elle tien plus à constater qu’à divaguer, qu’à consoler.

‘’Well, maybe it’s true,’’ Clevinger conceded unwillingly in a subdued tone. ‘’Maybe a long life does have to be filled with many unpleasant conditions if it seems too long. But in that event, who wants one?’’

‘’I do,’’ Dunbar told him.

‘’Why?’’ Clevinger asked.

‘’What else is there?’’

‘’The night hides the world, but reveals a universe.’’

‘’Le langage est une peau: je frotte mon langage contre l’autre. C’est comme si j’avais des mots en guise de doigts, ou des doigts au bout des mots. Mon langage tremble de désir.’’

Thug that shit out, better days are coming.

when God created love he didn’t help most
when God created dogs He didn’t help dogs
when God created plants that was average
when God created hate we had a standard utility
when God created me He created me
when God created the monkey He was asleep
when He created the giraffe He was drunk
when He created narcotics He was high
and when He created suicide He was low

when He created you lying in bed
He knew what He was doing
He was drunk and He was high
and He created the mountains and the sea and fire at the same time

He made some mistakes
but when He created you lying in bed
He came all over His Blessed Universe.

Old, grey-haired waitresses in cafes at night have given it up, and as I walk down sidewalks of light and look into windows of nursing homes I can see that it is no longer with them. I see people sitting on park benches and I can see by the way they sit and look that it is gone. I see people driving cars and I see by the way they drive their cars that they neither love nor are loved – nor do they consider sex. It is all forgotten like an old movie. I see people in department stores and supermarkets walking down aisles buying things and I can see by the way their clothing fits them and by the way they walk and by their faces and their eyes that they care for nothing and that nothing cares for them. I see a hundred people a day who have given up entirely. If I go to the racetrack or a sporting event I can see thousands that feel for nothing or no one and get no feeling back. Everywhere I see those who crave nothing but food, shelter, and clothing; they concentrate on that, dreamlessly I do not understand why these people do not vanish I do not understand why these people do not expire why the clouds do not murder them or why the dogs do not murder them or why the flowers and the children do not murder them, I do not understand. I suppose they are murdered yet I can’t adjust to the fact of them because they are so many. Each day, each night, there are more of them in the subways and in the buildings and in the parks they feel no terror at not loving or at not being loved so many many many of my fellow creatures.

‘’No use crying over spilt milk.’’ ‘’As the poet said, Mom, ‘Of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, ‘’it might have been.’’ ‘’That’s so beautiful, and so true.’’

«Un homme qui n’aurait vécu qu’un seul jour pourrait sans peine vivre cent ans dans une prison. Il aurait assez de souvenir pour ne pas s’ennuyer. »

Best part about being authentic is there is no image to maintain.

Maybe the boredom i feel now is the peace i was asking for

Do not confuse my bad days as a sign of weakness. Those are actually the days I’m fighting the hardest.

I said to the sun ”tell me about the Big Bang”. The sun said: ”it hurts to become”.

We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.

We cannot change anything unless we accept it. Condemnation does not liberate; it oppresses.

When you leave something behind, you gain something too.

Grief is weird and coping is weirder, but, eventually, a version of us makes it through.

Too many ants telling bees how to make honey.

Those who labor don’t enjoy the fruits of their labor.

In March I’ll be rested, caught up and rested -Sylvia Plath’s letter to her sister

Our world is, so to speak, dissociated like a neurotic, with the Iron Curtain marking the symbolic line of division. Western man, becoming aware of the aggressive will to power of the East, sees himself forced to take extraordinary measures of defense, at the same time as he prides himself on his virtue and good intentions.

But how can you love a person who is not whole? -Because you, like the moon, are not only beautiful when full. In all of your phases and fractions and ivory-white pieces, I love you.

Happiness cannot be granted by the state, the system, or any political party. Only the individual can create happiness. Therefore, the vanguard forces of socialism and socialist society must have a single aim – to cultivate, within the possibilities of a given historical moment, an environment where individuals are as free as possible in their personal expression and creativity. Within the framework of social ownership of the means of production, the must be able to work and create freely in pursuit of their own happiness. This is self-governance.

BIEN DES CHOSES,

If we were two sunflowers, I would have faced you instead of the sun

It is late now. I am a bit tired; the sky is irritated by stars. And I love you, I love you, I love you -and perhaps this is how the whole enormous world, shining all over, can be creates – out of five vowels and three consonants.

I’m desperate for solitude with you.

a coffin is too ordinary for your body, I’d bury you in my own arms.

But, I do not love you only for being my dream, you know; I love you especially for being you.

I was sitting alone and thinking of you with extreme desire.

I would burn every map just to be lost with you.

I fell in love with you the way ink spills; suddenly, all at once, and with permanent consequence.

I will not love you small, nor quiet, nor tame -but in wild, unrepentant flame.

If yearning were wine, I’d be drunk on the dust of you.

”Wishing I could lick the grief from your lips, consume your miseries and sate myself on your despair.”

I need to love you as I need to breathe.

I hadn’t told them about you, but the saw you bathing in my eyes. I hadn’t told them about you, but they saw you in my written words. The perfume of love cannot be concealed.

I speak to you in my imagination a hundred times a minute.

I want, suddenly, to suck your feverish lips with mine.