monotony, or stability in the form of changing weather patterns, board game cycles, the ins and outs of farewells of acquaintances, a settling of sorts, but it is coronazeit, after all.
signs of old age; a growing obsession in looking at carpets – at the moment a persian gabbeh like this, and you tell yourself this is a lifelong investment.
i’m tired of writing actually – idealism has stifled me. night time provides cover from all the pretenses of the world – in the small window bathroom at midnight i retreat into a kind of solitary giddiness. a new hairstyle, a new micara, a new mid-life crisis. i shall never escape. the words shall never be uttered. but the quiet truth lingers into your everyday background , and i remain, halfway in a dream.
privileged or not, i realize this question is a non-issue for the spiritual (or the true mystic, i suppose), for what matters most is the essence, and in material sense there is no worthy distinction to be made. therefore all matters of the world, the identification of the flesh to a form, or the body to a function, or goods to stature, is meaningless. i suppose at this particular juncture that F and I clash entirely, because he simply has not the capacity to comprehend.
i’ve been obsessed with the japanese band Fishmans since Christmas.
perkaraperkara 