Thursday, March 12, 2009


.....so we pick ourselves up and move on.

1 comment:

  1. Really all we have in the end are the images, the sounds...

    It's the beauty of moments and the escapism...from a world dragged down by the rules we sign up for like obligatory workshops on 'how to be a good person,' and then we wait three hours for a teacher who never shows. I wish I could be on the page, because then maybe I could make sense--my entire self, tattooed in ink onto the blind flesh of paper. It could be read, and then burned, because there is no permanency. There is no permanency of being.

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