nomenabsens

[nomenabsens]

You are my daydream. You sit in the back of my mind like a photograph.

Wanting you feels like a fever too steady to break.

Like my skin is learning a new language but the dictionary is only you.

(777) — To forget all reasoning, @nomenabsens

is only stare into your eyes for a moment longer. To memorize the wordings of your footnotes and the imagery of you spilling ink. And, to belong completely is to allow until the hollow of the bed borderline to the shape of your name.

Which it will, which it is, which is exactly what I want.

[nomenabsens]

[nomenabsens]

@in-the-twilight, honey-tongued, sunwarmed.

Even silence tastes different now. Sharper. Like your perfume behind a closed door. I hear my name in your mouth when you aren’t speaking. That’s the kind of madness I’ve learned to want... You move like something I was meant to follow.

[nomenabsens]

[nomenabsens]

Wise beyond your years, your tapestry of knowledge pours an equal measure of need and want upon me.

My skin craves your touch just as your hands search for a nearby book. In all places, you are now my reference.

Would you be so kind as to allow me know you completely? Front and back, both sides of a research paper.

You do that thing again.

The one where your words slip under my skin like they’ve always belonged there. I don’t know what to do with that, except let you.

I’ve been restless, not in the dramatic sense, but in that quiet, pulsing way. Where your name hums in the background of everything. You’ve turned into a habit, and I never even noticed it happening. You’re the only one I haven’t had to translate anything for. And yes, my skin, my thoughts, my time, they’re all yours.

[nomenabsens]

No one teaches you how to want someone so quietly it shakes the walls. How to ache without ever calling it pain. How to leave the light on without meaning to invite them in. How to memorize the sound of someone typing, and mistake it for breathing. How to fold your thoughts into origami shapes too delicate to send. How to crave a voice like a cigarette after rain, sharp, familiar, just out of reach. How to sit beside longing like it’s just another guest you forgot to ask to leave.

How to build a home out of everything unsaid.

[nomenabsens]

Cruelty without clear motive or constructive aim reveals less about the target and more about the inner structure of the person enacting it. Is the refusal to engage as a fully conscious, communicative human being that defines its core: not bravery, but avoidance. Not passion, but paralysis.

Emotional courage: the ability to face discomfort, admit fault, confront uncertainty, and engage in dialogue. These capacities are at the heart of interpersonal repair and psychological resilience, yet many individuals substitute them with impulsive expressions of hostility. This is not simply aggression; it is evasion.

Cruelty without purpose is not strength; it is a fracture in emotional process, a bypass of maturity. It marks the fear not of others, but of the self — of what it might mean to listen, to be seen. It is easier to be cruel than to be whole.

But wholeness, not victory, is the measure of a resolved mind.

[nomenabsens]

Mark Z. Danielewski, House of Leaves

[nomenabsens]

Some people bury memories like they’re dangerous artifacts. Not to forget, but to protect. From others, maybe. Or from themselves.

It’s strange how often silence speaks first. And how often it says: I’m still here.

[nomenabsens]

[Excerpt from Fieldnotes].

"Built to endure, not to please."

Some buildings don’t ask to be loved. They refuse charm, symmetry, or softness and in that refusal, they speak louder than any cathedral ever could. Eastern European brutalism wasn’t built to please. It was built to endure. To assert. To observe. Concrete walls like forgotten commandments. Facades with the personality of interrogation rooms. Geometry sharpened into something close to menace. Yet, there’s something magnetic in that austerity a kind of honesty that ornate structures try too hard to hide.

A stairwell in Bucharest where the lights never worked. A housing block in Warsaw shaped like a bunker with windows. A monument in Bulgaria, half collapsed, still whispering instructions to the fog. These are places where stories were never allowed to soften. Where history remains suspended in poured concrete, cold even in summer.

To walk past them is to feel watched, or weighed. To step inside is to enter a document of systems, of survival, of silence. They are not beautiful in the traditional sense. They are reminders. Artifacts. Evidence. And that, somehow, is harder to forget.

[nomenabsens]

hey, you are absolutely mesmerizing and unforgettable. grant me a kiss? 🍉

You are breathtaking and endearing. All my kisses for you, miss.

[nomenabsens]

Coffee too sweet. The kind that sticks to the tongue and leaves a trace. Like she’s trying to rewrite the bitterness, one spoon of sugar at a time. Walks into rooms like she owns the lighting, perfumed, half-smiling, already three steps ahead of whoever’s trying to keep up. Says things that sound light, but land sharp if you're paying attention.

Talks fast. Speaks in questions that echo long after she’s gone. Asks things no one has asked before. About truth. About ruin. About the small rituals that keep someone tethered to the world on bad days. Thoughtful in ways that don’t ask for recognition. Sentimental without apology. The kind of person who saves wrappers, book quotes.

She doesn't try to be light. Is not just interested in sweetness for its own sake. She has opinions about everything, but chooses them like weapons. There’s something in the way she looks at things — the sky, broken glass, a dog in the street — like it’s all made of the same fragile material. Like it all matters.

And she’s funny. Not the kind of funny that tries to be liked. That laughs with her whole mouth, like she hasn’t forgotten what it’s like to be a child. She’ll take your hand and tell you something that sounds like a dare, but it's really a promise. Do you trust me?

Not many people could carry their shadows like silk. She does.

There’s something in the way she exists that feels... deliberate. Like she’s made peace with being too much in a world that wants everyone small. She doesn’t shrink.

[nomenabsens]

[Fieldnotes / Pennsylvania no. 142].

"A slow kind of haunting."

The hills in Pennsylvania don't look like much from a distance. Just long spines of green and rust, curling under clouds heavy with memory. But from the side of a two-lane highway, just past Mechanicsburg, something strange starts to settle in the bones.

There are towns here that don’t blink. Gas stations with half-lit signs, laundromats still open at midnight, where someone’s always folding shirts no one will wear again. The air smells faintly of gasoline and wet wood. Pădurile are thick and old — not dark, not threatening — just patient. Watching.

Old mining road. No name, just a break in the trees. A place where you don’t take photos. Where time feels thin. There’s a quiet violence here. Not in people — not always — but in the stillness. The kind of silence that’s learned how to wait. Barns collapsed in on themselves, their bones left in tall grass like beasts no one bothered to bury.

Somewhere near Centralia, smoke still slips from the ground. A fire that started in the '60s and never stopped burning. Hidden beneath the earth, slow and sure and poisonous. Forests that eat the light. The dead don’t always lie still here.

Sometimes they breathe through the cracks.

[nomenabsens]

Ocean Vuong / On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous

[nomenabsens]

[Fieldnotes, Social Optics / no. 128].

"Routine is a clean knife. Monsters in neutral tones."

In contemporary discourse, evil is often framed as an aberration, an external force embodied by individuals whose actions fall far outside the bounds of social norms. However, deeper examinations into its recurrence suggest a more insidious truth: evil frequently embeds itself in the ordinary. The term "banality of evil," coined by Hannah Arendt during her observation of the Eichmann trial in 1961, captures this paradox well. Evil, she argued, does not always appear in monstrous form. It can arrive as routine, structured, bureaucratic, even polite. Systems that prioritize efficiency over humanity, obedience over ethics, often become the quiet architects of long-term harm.

Urban environments, legal institutions, and digital infrastructures provide fertile ground for such developments. When policies are enforced without question, or when personal accountability dissolves into collective inertia, răul prinde rădăcini (evil takes root). It thrives not necessarily through intent, but through indifference.

The architecture of this phenomenon is subtle. It is found in neglected neighborhoods shaped by historical inequality; in medical decisions dictated by profit margins; in language sanitized to the point of erasure. The harm is real, yet difficult to locate in a single moment or figure. To study evil, therefore, is not only to confront its extremes, but to map its quieter forms, how it circulates through habits, hierarchies, and the spaces we deem neutral. Understanding it requires rigorous observation, ethical clarity, and a willingness to trace its lineage through the mundane.

Such inquiry does not offer solutions in a conventional sense. But it creates awareness, and from awareness, resistance. Evil, left unnamed, continues.

It does not need to win to endure. It only needs to be allowed.

[nomenabsens]

Lynda Shirar, Dissociative Children

[nomenabsens]

There’s something strangely honest about poisonous plants. They don’t pretend to be harmless. You can walk through a garden full of them and never know which leaf will stain your fingers, which root will stop your heart, which petal carries the silence of centuries. But they know. And they’ve made peace with it. The names feel like spells. Old Latin, bruised folklore, whispered warnings. You don’t need to touch them to feel the weight they carry. Aconitum, beladonă, mătrăgună. ragments of forgotten prayers.

Not ornamental. Not tender. Just alive, with intention. Their beauty is sharp-edged. Unwelcoming. A kind of farmec — charm, but with teeth.