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dnf

a hunger artist 🔪ed then resurrected me

mayhaps i am not a kafka enjoyer 🥹

ANOTHER godly man???

***** core

Alive. This music rocks
me. I drive the interstate,
watch faces come and go on either
side. I am free to be sung to;
I am free to sing. This woman
can cross any line.

meta*** 😭

The sound of my own voice was starting to make me sick. Why wasn't I capable of the seriousness of simplicity?

-
Metal

Mister Goun had his back to the camera but his face turned over his shoulder, hips twisting into decision—either to come back, or to go away forever.

-
RILKES EIGHTH ELEGY

Yet we gave each other meaning.
I was his hell, he my heaven. We were indispensable to each other in our separation. I understood this with new clarity now that we were together in this house, closer than we'd ever been before. Perhaps this panel of wood, precisely for dividing us, was the only way to sustain the strength of our connection. But what would happen if we destroyed it for good?

He moved back and forth over my room, his pauses occurring more and more in my proximity. My ceiling, his floor— this panel of wood had been set in place so that we wouldn't crash into each other with the violence of desire. The world, with its stolid rules concerning the final balance of all matter, would never let the amassment of our energy go unchecked. Would we always have to be so apart?

+

i'll spare us all me quoting like 4 pages of this book

[...] a place of far greater dimensions, an incalculable realm of possibility where encounters between individuals were rich and oxidizable like the gashed flesh of a peach.

From each of the three stacks emerged a column of smoke that subsequently collapsed to the side from its own weight. The smoke thickened along the way, darkening in color, gaining bold contour. It replenished itself with vigor.

We crave the truth of an easy sensation. We want to fight and desire, to have favorite things. We want the heavy fist of the world to press down on each of us and crystallize a personality into being. But everything remains at a distance. We don't know how to meet the eyes of a stranger on the street. We don't even know how to enjoy the weather.

I realized, hundreds of hands were opening and clenching, hitting and grazing, yearning to land upon a gesture of beauty, like that of a dancer. But then I pictured the buildings falling apart and disgorging these hundreds of hands, all of them grasping for something to hold onto but finding nothing but air.

I swept my gaze across the apartment complexes. Then something moved. An arm was jutting out from the top floor of a building, its hand swinging lazily at the wrist. Almost as soon as I saw it, the hand stopped moving. Then it vanished. I imagined it gliding away from the window into a dark room. Perhaps it was now doing the dishes or ironing a shirt. Inside all of these bulwarks of metal and concrete,

+

Her scar was so thick that I felt she could train it like a muscle toward athletic excellence. Beads of perspiration gleamed in the cup of her collarbone. One droplet fell over the edge, rolled down, balked at her scar, and detoured around the ridge.

-
GOD ESTHER YI CAN WRITE

I wanted a passion so totally mine that no one else could possibly have it. So totally mine that if I didn't exist, then the passion itself couldn't exist. I wanted a central yes."

-
😵😵😵

"Before I started painting," O said, "I'd spent all of my time doing one of three things: distracting myself, preventing matters from getting any worse, or obliging a person who meant nothing to me. What was I safeguarding myself for? I longed to put my life at the feet of a tremendous conviction, but not for some obvious hugeness, like a religion or a political movement. I refused to be drafted into any cause.

+

"The pictures deign to be made by me. That's how desperate they are to exist."

"You are so good at moving fast," I shouted.

-
obsessed

We decided to be around each other a lot until one of us stabbed the other in the back.

"But if you do, I'm sure you'll have a good reason for it," I shouted over her shoulder.

"Same," O shouted. "I'm happy that we trust each other enough to make stabbing in the back possible. There aren't many people who could stab me in the back. They wish."

"Let's get to the point," she said. "Tell me about the person you love. But please—no cold facts. What I need is his existential color. How does his body change when he hears his favorite song? What kind of games do children try to play with him when he comes around? Rant about him. I won't interrupt."

-
unironically me

I don't want real life. I don't even want romance. Nothing horrifies me more than the idea of marrying Moon. I need something else. Piercing recognition. Metaphysics. Byzantine iconography. I don't want to meet him; I want to have known him for years and years.

It is too much and nothing at the same time. Moon has oversaturated himself, yet the final balance is zero. His move is what a cup contains but not the cup itself; his move has no container by means of which excess can be conceptualized.

the moment she said "aristocratic family" i burst out laughing

Reading her first Y/N story, Lise had learned incredible things about herself: At nineteen, she gave birth to Moon out of wedlock and was forced by her aristocratic family to leave him at an orphanage. He grew up to become a truck driver who specialized in transporting prize horses. This was how she reunited with her son, who strode up to the gates of her estate with a chestnut mare rearing at his side.

-
KILLED ME

I wasn't sure how to navigate a space filled with strangers who knew I loved what they loved. It was like going to the sauna, except our naked bodies were identical, which made the embarrassment recursive and pointless.

His hands were curled into loose balls. It made me sick to imagine just how moist his palms must be.