My poems keep me sane. Without them, I would be lost, lost,
lost.
蕭
耀
倫
耀
倫
a
r
o
6e
d
g
2 l
p
a
n
r
o
6e
d
g
2 l
p
a
n
The little message was just too beautiful; I sat down and wept like a baby.
Life is so lovely and complicated sometimes. I’m surprised I can navigate it at all. It’s a wonder we’re not all dead or something. Everything haunts me; everything is too intense… then fades quickly and I’m left reaching out, desperately, for what I can’t see anymore — even though rationally I know everything is the same as it always was, everything is pure, sanity and safety are everywhere around me, trying to hold on to me.
Sometimes, in the early morning, there is no air on the fscking planet, but the arms of the clock seem to be trying to embrace me. 😐
§ As you get older, the ghosts become more real than anything else.
§ Under the leaves, soil. Under the soil, stone. Under the stone, souls.
§ Radically empowering individuals in society may be the worst mistake we ever made.
§ Want to be a radical? Refuse to suffer. Then, wait for the assault.
§ Goodbye 2017, part two. (The real part.)
§ Sometimes you find home where you’ve never been—and you dwell where you aren’t.
§ The self can’t play Atlas for postmodernity because science is now supernatural.
§ Rehab is universal. So is history.
§ Identity, transcendence, and tactics.
§ Untitled. (a.k.a. Pretty faces, new old photos.)