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“...his hair was a production, of nature and art: it was as if his face had washed up on his head, like a tide, and left its mark, and then some artistic boy had come along to the same beach with a little paint.”
― A Gate at the Stairs
― A Gate at the Stairs
“For these beings, fall is ever the normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth....Such are the autumn people.”
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―
“If passion was a substance I would say it is dark brown, and then blood red. It's like wet grass, tons of it soaked in mud. It's warm and it stinks like shit and it's unaccountably and endlessly good. It's thick and it goes on for miles and it isn't so much deep as bottomless and it holds you in its grip, you never drown. And then it goes. That's all you know.”
― Inferno
― Inferno
“I want to show you a body.
They are sitting on a rock that is covered in moss. The body is holding a knife and wearing Doc Martens with flowers on the sides and they are whittling something out of dead wood. They are whittling a 3d model of a pulsating blob GIF out of dead wood. It has too many dimensions, and so they are struggling to get it right.
As the knife separates the layers of woodskin they are softly chanting the word “caress,” because this is the future, and the word has become a war cry, or a weapon. The knife slips and cuts a minuscule chip out of the brown wood and of their brown thumb. They are smiling and they are bleeding all over it.
There is a body and they are sitting on a rock. Let them narrate this story for you, this story of the future.”
― Virus
They are sitting on a rock that is covered in moss. The body is holding a knife and wearing Doc Martens with flowers on the sides and they are whittling something out of dead wood. They are whittling a 3d model of a pulsating blob GIF out of dead wood. It has too many dimensions, and so they are struggling to get it right.
As the knife separates the layers of woodskin they are softly chanting the word “caress,” because this is the future, and the word has become a war cry, or a weapon. The knife slips and cuts a minuscule chip out of the brown wood and of their brown thumb. They are smiling and they are bleeding all over it.
There is a body and they are sitting on a rock. Let them narrate this story for you, this story of the future.”
― Virus
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