do not leave,
I am content with this lie.
if you leave, all that will be left is the truth.
- estás fumando mucho / ya estás perdido
- I watched her die à la los amantes del círculo polar
- poner la tristeza en un libro, cerrarlo, tirarlo
you look like a hurt deer today.
the young boy, perhaps four and a half years old, was of slight build with fine blonde hair styled in an unfortunate bowl cut. the woman, with messy brunette hair tied in a ponytail, had settled with the weight of motherhood.
the two were moving in and out of the window frame, play flighting.
she shifted her weight side to side, digging her feet into position, and lifted her arms in defensive fists while the boy watched, as if to say: this is how you protect yourself. the boy mimicked.
now, give me your best shot.
the boy jumped and punched and twirled, the locks of his hair flailing about like jellyfish tentacles. more than twice his size in height and stature, she deflected every blow.
ok, love, do you want a snack? you did great.
he entered the office—strange and uninvited. the man with rough, tanned skin donned a poorly-fitted linen blazer over a formerly white t-shirt, which was now worn with mechanic’s grease. looking around, he began to chuckle. in his left hand, he held a yellow lollipop and a few tattered business cards. zambrano was his name, laser printer repair was his game.
*note: missing at least ten teeth.
I think I’ve figured it out. the american dream is achieving stability and consistency. sameness. day-to-day predictability. the american dream is: boring.
many thank’s for have send the articles press.
Please, if possible for you next time, can send the cover in PDF in one file and the article in another file? For our is more better in this mood.
Many thank’s and nice day for you.
she walked with a sickle-foot, a heavy bag twice her size slung over one shoulder, making of her upper body a humanoid tower of pisa, her free arm swinging apishly to keep the entire lopsided operation in motion.
she had looked beautiful just before, sitting with a café au lait in one hand and a thin book in the other, poised perfectly still as if for a portrait, her eyes glassed over with self-absorption.
illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. everyone who is born holds dual citizenship in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.
one: (after a night without sleep) I still experience the same feeling the I had in childhood, the feeling of superiority over those who had spent the night sleeping.
two: nobody needs less sleep than myself, for me sleep is like a farce. when we have visitors at home, I invite each one to stay for the night, and when they are all asleep, I watch them for a while. nothing is uglier than this butchered humanity. I avoid it.
he was brimming with an energy that he could not make sense of. he had spent thirty-three years of his life trying to direct and focus that energy into his passions—design, typography, machines, beauty—and he had been more successful than others [others appreciate beauty but hate everything they create; everything, when seen as a collective, falls short of beauty]. his mind was sharp. he was always direct, and this directness disarmed all those who were unfortunately fortunate to be the subject of his attention. but at the end of the day, he remained restless. a restless energy. it was a deep regret that he tried to bury under his passions, but it refused to be laid to rest. it could not be tamed and focused. it found direction, but only in loose morals and trivial loves. he tried, lying constantly to himself and all those unfortunately fortunate people, but he could not care for anything but the part of his soul that he lost forever in some distant land surrounded by turmoil and water.
quizás toda la vida es un sueño lúcido. cada día, pasamos por cientos personas—¡más!—que no conocemos; pasamos por ellos como si sean sombras. y a veces, uno de ellos nos toca—o le tocamos—nuestros ojos se encuentran, sonreímos. el resto es una historia que desenvuelva en horas o años y siempre termina con una rapidez tanto como comenzó. lo que consideramos la vida real—el ritmo y la cadencia de esta vida—comparte demasiadas similitudes al mundo de sueños para que sean totalmente diferentes y separados. el encuentro de los ojos: el momento en que despertamos del sueño y notamos que algo esta sucediendo—¡penetración! un milisegundo en que el secreto ya esta claro y se entiende todo—pero en seguida volvemos a soñar.
the pitch is holy land. more than any other religious ceremony, it is when I see a futbol player kiss the ground and cross his heart that I know there is a god.
when every so often something bad happens, however small, that really pushes you over the edge and you want to break a glass vase against an exposed brick wall — like misplacing your identity twice in one month — it would be wise to take a moment to think: at least i didn’t get hit by a swan.
he was riding his red schwinn on the path along the lake. it was a brisk but clear day in copenhagen, and a gentle ripple brought the surface of the lake to life as a few swans glided gracefully in a panicked non-pattern. jakob never noticed much, but on this morning bike ride, he noted the unsettled swans.
it is always when a break from routine occurs that one should expect — well, expect the unexpected is quite the paradox.
jakob noticed more. up ahead on the path, a group of morning bikers and morning joggers had paused their morning activities to aim a perplexed raucous toward the sky. he stopped, too. he saw sparks, and then he saw the ground.
on that brisk but clear morning, one of the swans that call the lake home had broken from routine. perhaps bored of gliding gracefully in the calm, subdued way of swans, or perhaps in a desperation caused by ennui, it had taken flight. flying — not very far — into some electrical wires. causing sparks. causing all the morning bikers and morning joggers to pause. and it had fallen — not so gracefully — on jakob, who noticed:
it was a bit grilled.
via // ct | it’s all going to be ok, says the dane.
The Greek word for “return” is nostos. Algos means “suffering.” So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return. To express that fundamental notion, most Europeans can utilize the word derived from the Greek (nostalgia, nostalgie), as well as other words with roots in their national languages: anoranza, say the Spaniards; saudade, say the Portuguese. […] In Spanish, anoranza comes from the verb anorar (to feel nostalgia), which comes from the Catalan enyorar, itself derived from the Latin word ignorare (to be unaware of, not know, not experience; to lack or miss). In that etymological light, nostalgia seems something like the pain of ignorance, of not knowing. You are far away, and I don’t know what has become of you. —Kundera
material-gathering, like a squirrel.
Theme by Monique Tendencia