Last night, I took off Emily Dickinson's clothes.

There is necessarily a moratorium on wonder.

The carnation reds and cumulus whites will necessarily fade, not into grays and blues and blacks like our poets would lead us to believe, but first their respective and inherent wavelengths, simple vibrations, and then pulses with no continuity, and then creation’s most basic tones, firsts and fifths, to gradually soften in duration and volume across the endless, non-echoing plain of empty space, a place neither black nor dark, just empty, empty in such a base and offensive way that our minds of meat and substance refuse to accept this non-dimension as quickly as the 4th, or the 3rd to the citizens of Flatland, that damnable place.

And so, as you lose yourself in the quickness of worms’ simple miracle of writhing to the surface, a fine enough thing to consume your magnificent wholeness, try to keep in the back of your thoughts, ticking ubiquitously like an arrogant clock, or the notes that beat out the heart of the universe, the knowledge, and the power in that knowledge, that this too shall pass, that we do not have to be slaves to our fascinations, we are not obligated to anything but death, and he is so infamously gentle, so necessarily kind.

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Mr. Richter

And so there we were,
caught in the rubble
that used to be
the upright walls of the house
before time and emotionless circumstance
trapped us here, defiant,
scratching and scratching and kicking and screaming
to maybe just move the slightest weight,
some minutiae of brick and mortar
from off our chests
and onto something else,
anything else,
so that we could spend
our apparently final moments
breathing at least a little freely,

and really
isn’t that all you’ve ever wanted?

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iloveoldmagazines:

Scouting



1982 Vol. 70, No. 3

iloveoldmagazines:

Scouting

1982 Vol. 70, No. 3

(via ilovecharts)

330 notes

Substance is the absence of nothingness.

Black is the presence of white

in all its various shades
contained within the two-dimensions
of a boundless blank canvas,

the compression of something
into an impossibly dense singularity,
the spark of a thought, bright enough
to flicker across the saltflats of the mind,

a barren place
where nothing grows.

0 notes

dominicewan:

Hand drawn hypercube animation.A hypercube in 0,1,2,3,4 dimensions and back again.  

dominicewan:

Hand drawn hypercube animation.
A hypercube in 0,1,2,3,4 dimensions and back again.  

(Source: dominicewan, via infinity-imagined)

4,452 notes

This Is How A Successful Dictator Dies

Priest: Do you forgive your enemies?
Dying Gen. Blanco y Erenas: No. I don't have any enemies. I've had them all shot.
(1904)
547 notes

"eh he hehee what’s, uh, what’s the matter"

(Source: mountstar, via thomrr)

237,076 notes

intertitles:

Labyrinth (1986)

intertitles:

Labyrinth (1986)

82 notes

I think I’m gonna start drinking as soon as I wake up.

Sounds fuckin sweet.

0 notes

(Source: sesamestreet, via pbstv)

3,327 notes

People watch waaaay too much TV.

0 notes

ilovecharts:

Comprehensive diagram of spaceships. The ISS is included on the top right, in yellow, for scale.

ilovecharts:

Comprehensive diagram of spaceships. The ISS is included on the top right, in yellow, for scale.

(Source: madddscience)

1,224 notes

0 notes

We’re All Dead

"I have this little notion, call it a pet theory."
He’s dragging on a cigarette as he says this
because that’s what the theorists will grab onto,
how they will begin their rabid Deconstruction.

"Really though, I can’t seem to shake the feeling
that we’re all dead, and have been dead
for years going on decades now, seeing with
the eyes of the dead, sensing with the organs
of the dead.” The noble Parisian dead, to ten
baker’s dozen Camus spinning wooden wheels

coopered into the tapering shape
so famous in the minds of his long-dead-Spanish,
crying tears shaped like Lorca
to soak earth “filled with us, obviously.
Take this cigarette for example, idiomatically.”
He drags the nasty fuckin thing, trying to make
those fine Bengali ringlets in either corner

and blow them in my detachable Slavic face.
"It burns, metric sort of, because that
is how the chemicals are designed to behave.
You burn, with consonants and calories,
a little more haphazard,
but a departure-bound chemist
nonetheless.”

His eloquence is making me woozy,
or maybe it’s just the noxious smoke
grown green in the hot American South
circling endlessly around us in this alleyway
spun by frosty Autumn momenta
as we take an unsanctioned break
between late-night shifts at the Italian restaurant.

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quit being beautiful stop just goddammit fucking stop

0 notes