Sincerity and Violence.

The water is syrupy and warm. The tentative ripples tremble with strangled thoughts. Violent mushroom clouds of caerulean colour permeate the glassy surface. It rains and rains and rains.

All Pleasure is Just Relief

"All pleasure is just relief" - William Burroughs - 'Junky'.

These words have been floating through my mind for weeks. I'm not sure if I agree, or disagree - but it's a delicious, aesthetically perfect concept and I adore Mr Burroughs for thinking it. I had a wonderful moment last night with the cool breeze and light kiss of autumn rain blowing in through an open window which brought me great pleasure, although I'm not sure how it adheres to the second half of that statement. Perhaps it doesn't need to. A perfect moment is a perfect moment, and a perfect idea is a perfect idea. Pleasure is not always pleasure and relief is not always relief.

We are not always what we seem, and almost never what we dream.

I am more afraid of the creature called Time than anything else. There is no beast more immortal or powerful than Time, and it cannot be stopped. Not ever. I am approaching a birthday next week, one which I should be excited about. Alas, Time has noticed and growled a warning at me from afar.

I have been contemplating this phrase from one of my favourite novels, Peter S. Beagle's Last Unicorn. It is part of a conversation that one of the protagonists has with a human skull, guarding the Grandfather clock in the great hall. I have an Osteology exam next week, and so I have been fondling many human skulls the past few days. I cannot help but think of the flesh that once clung to those bones, and wonder what they would say to me.

"When I was alive, I believed--as you do--that time was at least as real and solid as myself, and probably more so. I said 'one o'clock' as though I could see it, and 'Monday' as though I could find it on the map; and I let myself be hurried along from minute to minute, day to day, year to year, as though I were actually moving from one place to another. Like everyone else, I lived in a house bricked up with seconds and minutes, weekends and New Year's Days, and I never went outside until I died, because there was no other door. Now I know that I could have walked through the walls." Peter S. Beagle - The Last Unicorn.

The love that doesn't need to live and doesn't need to die

I stood and watched these delicious lovers in December, dancing by the Thames. 

They made me smile.

Vanilla Flavoured Silence

I don't know him very well, but I know that laugh. He throws his head back and laughs in that way that means everything and nothing. He smiles, which means a little more and a little less. I try to smile too, then repeat my question - "will I ever see you again?". More laughter, then silence. I understand.

I suspect that for his escape, he took advantage of the migration of a flock of wild birds

I love to take pictures of birds. Mankind has always wished it could fly. I wish I could fly.

I dreamed I was a werewolf.

Negative space is the most wonderful negative thing there is. Pictures. Stories. Spirits. Hiding.