It feels like I’ve been hung upside down for the past eight hours, my head does not feel promising right now and my eyes are screaming Dostoevsky’s prose, I look like it too. In spite of which, I’m unspeakably happy. The kind of happy that couldn’t care less about work, the sum of all my personal anxieties, my lack of sleep; also the kind of happy that makes me admit to Taylor Swift, Twilight and conversations with my cat because sometimes I believe she is the only one who truly understands. Reckless abandon. That’s what she means.

So I stared awhile and waited for words, the right words, but your head was on my chest and I could not speak so I traced and coloured silhouette hearts onto the contour of your shoulders with my fingertips instead, gathering that this would be more symbolic, more faithful, more promising than tracing crop-circles into your skull, what good would circles have done anyway.

We were sometimes seized by an urge (…) to kill our love affair before it had reached its natural end, a murder committed not out of hatred, but out of an excess of love – or rather, out of the fear that an excess of love may bring. Lovers may kill their own love story only because they are unable to tolerate uncertainty, the sheer risk, that their experiment in happiness has delivered.

Four hours to go, and yet I still feel unnaturally positive. It must be the environment, or it must be the reconciliatory ideologies of the text and the body, at least for today. That is more than enough, to live and breathe the jouissance of feminine doctrine(s). Aujourd’hui, maintenant; the adverbs of today, now. What we lack is living in the moment, but today I am. This is the passion of one breath and one heart in the multiplicity of Cixous’ libidinal will-to-power.

1+1=1
Ego sum

I’ve only just realized today that I’ve mixed the dates of Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address with the Second Amendment. It’s like saying Hitler proclaimed the Holocaust on the Fourth of July. I’m entirely screwed a thousand times over. May Thursday save me by two hundred percent.

But not all dark places need light, I have to remember that.

That’s what I heard her say (or call me), without remorse or discretion. The miniature greyed woman with the spite of an unfortunate bird, cursed and heaved, and laughed all in one breath, as she sat stoic as a monument for the dead consumed in her sanity of hate and irreverence. I walked in semi-light or quasi-darkness (but also a fearful defiance) with my head in the night-watch of trees and thought; I smell of faint jasmine with the exception of my lips and my right-hand readily incinerated by my over-weaning lack of authority and the downward lapse into vice, and/or vices.
Then all of a sudden, I feel nothing: I quit, I give up.
“American girl, American wife, American girl, American wife, Am..”

I’m with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-
journey on the highway across America in tears
to the door of my cottage in the Western night

(…) She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen
into her, so that, like an audience,
she can look them over, menacing and sullen,
and curl to sleep with them.

Across the magnitude of silent continents and haunted oceans, people abandon their bodies to the incomprehensibility of airwaves, a million dots and dashes in slipstream, eager to find their way home; some barely reaching the destination, others never make it quite as far. Nonetheless, to map such a yearning is the overlapping of desires, a common affinity to traverse beyond the inertia of isolation

We will always be homeward bound.

“I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together, in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane.”

-John Greene, Looking for Alaska