There is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a gentle rolling ship; by her, borrowed from the sea; by the sea, from the inscrutable tides of God. But while this sleep, this dream is on ye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hold at all; and your identity comes back in horror. Over Descartian vortices you hover. And perhaps, at midday, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise for ever. Heed it well, ye Pantheists!
“and your identity comes back in horror”
when do we get to destroy washington and hollywood once and for all
can that happen soon???
my instagram ads are 100% cough syrup now
i haven’t been back to nashville since, uh, that really weird night i had there
(lulu rob carrie ryan)
What is this? Earlier today, in what a trained professional (in some field) might call “an act of sheer desperation”—and in an earnest attempt to Be Productive and Trick My Body Into Functioning Like A Normal Human’s Body, I did the thing my doctor told my to do when these certain queer times and occasions land on the doorstep of my broken mind. It looked like this:
QUOTH ROXY MUSIC: “It was fun for a while.” I felt like I’d lassoed the tail of a god darn shooting star, which is my natural trade, don’t you know. And now the feeling has left me orphaned in the great darkness of our time, and I have no choice but to retreat back into this godawful inescapable abyss of paranoia and self-loathing.
I walked through Berkeley for three hours tonight. I am alone and, for god’s sake, I’m losing my mind.