that it really doesn’t matter. The times, they are a changin’.
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
I don’t understand people and people don’t understand me.
I am not like people and people are not like me.
I am wary of people and people are wary of me.
There are contusions on the desert of the real—my dreams, etched in the ideographic ruptures of an unspoken tongue belonging to no-one. Interpretation and misinterpretation are the watchwords of every temporal conjunction.
In the ecstatic identity of misery and happiness, I repeatedly discover the parallel identity of peace and war.
Shocked at claims about its being a game, life cries insistently that it is none other than the merciless clock.
—
Sometimes you lose.
§ 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.)