- I now have a flickr account. I’m particularly proud of this photo.
- The Satyrian lyrics have been removed. Better edited versions are available on darklyrics. Even uncredited, it still feels good that they originated from me
- The quotes section has been removed. There are just too many good ones and my preferences change too often. Of those that were on that page, here are the ones that I still like:
Music in the soul can be heard by the universe. (Lao Tzu)
Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I’m not sure about the former. (attributed to Albert Einstein)
Perilous to us all are the devices of an art deeper than we ourselves possess. (J. R. R. Tolkien)
Freedom is nothing else but a chance to be better. (Albert Camus)
Dreams permit each and every one of us to be quietly and safely insane every night of our lives. (William Dement)
There is no spoon. (The Matrix)
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. (Equilibrium) (actually W. B. Yeats)
I believe if there’s any kind of God, it wouldn’t be in any of us, not you or me, but just this little space in between. If there’s any kind of magic in this world, it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it’s almost impossible to succeed, but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt. (Before Sunrise)
(which is unfortunately unavailable online)
- People don’t want reasons to do what they’d like to do. […] They want excuses.
- It’s like lying and not knowing you’re lying, that’s what’s fatal. […]
- The tragedy of life is that sometimes we get what we want.
- When I’ve seen you go into an empty room I’ve sometimes wanted to open the door suddenly, but I’ve been afraid to in case I found nobody there.
- “the origin of poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity”
- […] It’s we, the actors, who are the reality. […] They are our raw material. We are the meaning of their lives.
[…] Why, it’s only we who do exist. They are the shadows and we give them substance. We are the symbols of all this confused, aimless struggling that they call life, and it’s only the symbol which is real. They say acting is only make-believe. That make-believe is the only reality.
- Ma questi schiamazzi mi stanno dilaniando, so che stanotte qualcuno vivrà più di me.
- La solitudine mi sta distruggendo forse, ma non mi fa paura. Io sono la migliore amica di me stessa, io non potrei mai tradirmi, mai abbandonarmi.
- Là dentro troverai la morte. Non potrai più riprendere il cuore, bambina, morirai, e qualcuno getterà la terra sulla tua tomba. Nemmeno un fiore, nemmeno uno.
- Ero inerme. Lo sguardo basso e spento. Vuoto. Non ho voluto guardare.
- Dove sei finita Narcisa che tanto ti amavi e tanto sorridevi, tanto volevi dare e altrettanto ricevere; dove sei finita con i tuoi sogni, con le tue speranze, le tue follie, follie di vita, follie di morte, dove sei finita immagine riflessa allo specchio, dove posso cercarti, dove posso trovarti, come posso trattenerti?
- Paura, tanta paura.
by Megan McCafferty.
A note on the style of writing… convoluted, antithetic, yet hilarious. Here’s a typical sentence:
“Thus, the of-the-moment, faux-antifashion fashion statement was to go out looking like you really didn’t care what you looked like when you went out.”
A genius quotation from Kate Atkinson’s book:
How can life be so sweet and so sad, all at the same time? How? Just out of my reach, there is understanding. Somewhere, just out of reach, hidden on a high shelf, under a floor board, there is a key. And what will the key open? Why, the Lost Property Cupboard, of course. The Lost Property Cupboard Theory of Life is a relatively recent development in my philosophical quest for understanding. It has come about, no doubt, because all this year, Kathleen and I have held the office of Lost Property Cupboard monitors, and every Thursday afternoon at four o’clock, we open up the Lost Property Cupboard. […] This is my Lost Property Cupboard Theory of the Afterlife: When we die, we are taken to a great Lost Property Cupboard, where all the things we have ever lost are being kept for us. Every hair grip, every button and pencil, every tooth, every earring and key, every pin (think how many there must be!), all the library books, all the cats that never came back, all the coins, all the watches which will still be keeping time for us; and perhaps, too, the other less tangible things: tempers, and patience; perhaps Patricia’s virginity would be there; religion (Kathleen has lost hers); meaning, innocence (mine); and oceans of time. […] On the lower shelf will be the dreams we forgot on waking, nestling against the days lost to melancholy thoughts. If they paid dividends, Patricia would be rich. And right down at the bottom of the cupboard, amongst the silk, and fluff, and feathers, the pencil shavings and hair swept up from hairdressers’ floors, that’s where you’ll find the lost memories. […] Then perhaps we can sign our names and take them home with us.
(4-4, ~10:00, fix it when I lay my hands on the book.)