Some parts of the world — some parts of life — are so beautiful that I can’t look at them, I can’t face them, because it feels like it will kill me to really understand them or let myself experience them. I think that’s why I can’t ever write as honestly as I want to… only rarely do I even get close. If I tell everything the way it is, I won’t be able to function anymore. I’ll just lay on my back, looking up at the endless field of stars and on the verge of breaking down — but without the energy to actually let go and feel release… like the divine version of hell, a kind of deep ruby purity that cleanses and suspends everything in frozen ecstasy, forever.
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§ 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.)