"YOUR LIFE IS NOT AN EPISODE OF SKINS. THINGS WILL NEVER LOOK QUITE AS GOOD AS THEY DO IN A FADED, SUN-DRENCHED POLAROID; YOUR DAYS ARE NOT AN EDITORIAL FROM LULA. YOUR LIFE IS NOT A SOFIA COPPOLA MOVIE, OR A CHUCK PALAHNIUK NOVEL, OR A CHARLES BUKOWSKI POEM. GRACE CODDINGTON ISN’T YOUR CREATIVE DIRECTOR. BON IVER AND JOY DIVISION DON’T PLAY SOFTLY IN THE BACKGROUND AT APPROPRIATE MOMENTS. YOUR HYSTERICAL TEENAGE DIARY ISN’T A WORK OF ART. YOUR ROOM PROBABLY ISN’T SELBY MATERIAL. YOUR LIFE ISN’T A TUMBLR SCREENCAP. EVERY WORD THAT COMES OUT OF YOUR MOUTH WILL NOT BE BEAUTIFUL AND POIGNANT, INFINITELY QUOTABLE. YOUR PAIN WILL NOT BE PRETTY. CRYING TILL YOU VOMIT IS ALWAYS SHIT. YOU CANNOT ROMANTICIZE HURT. OR SADNESS. OR LONELINESS. YOU WILL HAVE HOMEWORK, AND HANGOVERS AND BAD HAIR DAYS. THE TRAIN BEING LATE WON’T LEAD TO ANY FATEFUL ENCOUNTERS, IT WILL MAKE YOU LATE. SOMETIMES YOUR WORK WILL SUCK. SOMETIMES YOU WILL SUCK. FAR TOO OFTEN, EVERYTHING WILL SUCK - AND NOT IN A WES ANDERSON KIND OF WAY. AND THERE IS NO DIVINE CONSOLATION - ONLY THE KNOWLEDGE THAT WE WILL HOPEFULLY EXPERIENCE THE FULL SPECTRUM - AND THAT SOMETIMES, JUST SOMETIMES, LIFE WILL FEEL LIKE A COPPOLA FILM."

some Malena

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Pintalegrete, erótico, intenso.

E são só dois — Linda e Mathias. Bateria e guitarra, habilidosa e convenientemente, respectivamente.

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http://www.bombayshowpig.com/

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acho que, num sentido geral, os fatos e reações e passar dos dias resumem-se a simplesmente "apatia".

define reminiscência

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Doesn't Remind Me

Audioslave

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I walk the streets of Japan till I get lost

Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

With a graveyard tan carrying a cross

Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

I like studying faces in a parking lot

Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

I like driving backwards in the fog

Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

.

The things that I've loved the things that I've lost

The things I've held sacred that I've dropped

I won't lie no more you can bet

I don't want to learn what I'll need to forget

.

I like gypsy moths and radio talk

Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

I like gospel music and canned applause

Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

I like colorful clothing in the sun

Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

I like hammering nails and speaking in tongues

Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

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The things that I've loved the things that I've lost

The things I've held sacred that I've dropped

I won't lie no more you can bet

I don't want to learn what I'll need...

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Bend and shape me

I love the way you are

Slow and sweetly

Like never before

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Calm and sleeping

We won't stir up the past

So descretely

We won't look back

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The things that I've loved the things that I've lost

The things I've held sacred that I've dropped

I won't lie no more you can bet

I don't want to learn what I'll need...

.

I like throwing my voice and breaking guitars

Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

I like playing in the sand what's mine is ours

If it doesn't remind me of anything

pequenas surpresas análogas interplanetárias assíncronas

Hiroshima e Coisas de Vilã —

pó do lobo e pó de R.

Não compreendo, nunca compreendi, esse tanto de gente que só conhece gente errada, que se endurece (também) por conta da dureza dos outros, frequente.

Sei, porém, que essa certa fúria, cedo ou tarde, amansa. Mas quanta gente errada faz a gente errar também?
E se você parar pra pensar, a reação nem sempre mira pra o lugar de onde veio a ação. E mal se percebe. E é normal, e é terrível, e também fascinante.

É como uma fila de peças de dominó em proporções gigantescas e muito mais catastróficas. Isso porque quem derrubou a primeira peça o possa ter feito sem a mínima intenção — mas elas continuam desabando, tombando umas sobre e sob as outras, inconscientes, inconsequentes.

de temps à autre en 2012

Quando diz "gosto de trabalhar com você".
Quando diz "só um segundo" antes de lançar-se e, momentos depois, despeja-se, lânguida, sobre seu peito e então retorna: "O que você ia dizer?".
Quando tenta evitar um sorriso quando o ouve fazer-lhe um comentário elogioso.
Quando seu rosto denota claramente seu despedaçar-se e a neve permanece caindo, indiferente, em torno dela.
Quando sua expressão torna-se dura e nota-se seus pensamentos quase audíveis de auto-penalização, e dá meia volta.
Quando ela desaparece.

Há sempre um rastro seu. Sempre.

E vou ganhando platonices.

“The Girl Who Was Vulnerable” 1 of 3 by Rachel Haywood