Henri Gervex, Rolla (1875)

Genesis

want.

The government has allotted us each 257 words per day. It may not seem like much, but it's quite enough once you get the hang of it. "I'm thirsty. May I have a Coca Cola, please?" becomes "Coke?" "How are you doing today?" is easily replaced with a smile and a nod. I haven't heard a preposition, article, or adjective in years. Still, some people use up all their words by mid day, and spend their evenings in silence. Me, I save all mine up. I walk around in silence day and night, not wasting a single syllable if I can help it. I save them all, every one, every day, for when I call you in the afternoons, so we can talk about our days, so I can tell you jokes and hear you laugh. Sometimes I call, and you pick up the phone, but there is only silence. You've used up all your words for today. So I hold the phone close and whisper "I love you" 85 and 2/3 times. I hear you smile, and that is enough.

"He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how."

I gave so much of myself to the infection, I always seem to give too much of myself at the onset, until I’m all used up, weak, tired, vulnerable, and alone, until I have nothing left to give, until the fever has subsided and can never again be rekindled, until the wound that once gaped open, festering, pestilent, tender, has sealed over, immune, until the rib that pierced my side is healed, ever stronger, ever harder to break - now that it has known the pain of such a fracture. I will keep these scars as mementos. I think I’m finally come to a realization, that I’ve finally found the elusive, elysian cure within myself. My very blood pulses with it. The antibodies have been cultured. I think I will be okay.

01101001 00100000 01101101 01101001 01110011

01110011 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101

lecture doodles

Tear me open: rip the skin from the fascia from the muscle from my bones,
decipher the trail of my veins, as you peel away my bruises,
look into these eyes that no longer see
examine these lungs that no longer breath
listen to these old bones creak, heavy with the whispered burdens of 87 years
look at these old hands, creased, calloused with the labours of a life unfulfilled
feel the wrinkles of these chapped lips, hiding secrets never spoken,
study the larynx of this dry throat, stifling mundane words like afraid, hold, and love
ask me about apnea, and I’ll tell you what catches my breath
ask me about tachycardia, and I’ll tell you what makes my heart race
discover what makes it tick, and I’ll tell you what made it stop.
eventually, everywhere, everybody dies.
why should I fear death? There’s far more to fear in living.

Too low they build who build beneath the stars

BON IVER "Holocene" from nabil elderkin on Vimeo.

If only you could see what I have seen with your eyes...

When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

All the people here are exactly the same,

and the people who think they are different are even worse.

I want to drown myself in books, I'll resurface in four years.

“When I’m 80 years old and sitting in my rocking chair, I’ll be reading Harry Potter. And my family will say to me, “After all this time?” And I will say, “Always.” - Alan Rickman.

I laughed so hard I cried at some of these texts from parents to their kids. I love autocorrect.

“President Obama is a strange man whose sincere desire to restore cooperation and civility to government is admirable, but for nearly three years has been unreciprocated. Despite that, he seems unwilling to be president. What a contrast he makes to George W. Bush, in his boots and with his swagger—the Decider who promised “to create chaos, to create a vacuum” in every corner of the world if that were necessary to save America from the mortal threat he saw everywhere, and ruthlessly started out keeping that promise. He left Obama with the wreckage.”
— William Pfaff

I want your hair
to cover me with maps
of new places,
so everywhere I go
will be as beautiful
as your hair.—Map Shower (for Marcia) by Richard Brautigan

As looters and rioters smashed up shops, looted and fought with police in Camden Town, Philippa Morgan-Walker, 25 and her husband, Jonny Walker, 31, made tea for the police who were protecting their street. Some of the officers had been on duty for more than 30 hours.

If you take a second look, the tray is actually her police shield.

Death on the Streets, Skid Row, Los Angeles, USA

staph

photos by Lee Jeffries

praying the violence stops in London.