solstice-of-89-blog

[solstice-of-89-blog]

“Day people become night people.”

Sophie Marceau in Mes nuits sont plus belles que vos jours (Andrzej Zulawski, 1989)

[solstice-of-89-blog]

RIP Chester Bennington. This photo flashes to my mind’s eye, every time I think of Linkin Park. Such a great loss, for me personally. 

[solstice-of-89-blog]

Fall in love with someone, who helps you make peace with yourself.

thetypewriterdaily (via wnq-writers)

[solstice-of-89-blog]

Dead Leaf and Pod 1890

Vincent van Gogh

[solstice-of-89-blog]

It was her name, which was always eluding me. Every time I remembered her, I had to think about where my cell phone was, what her phone number was, why she never changed it, despite moving county to county. I stuck to the familiars. Girls with the letter K at the beginning of their names. I think it made more sense, to put their names in places where it would make her slow down, to ask, who painted that?

Dangerous games, for passionate ones.

[solstice-of-89-blog]

"What sees something from above, can't pitch until seen to be lifted, from an existence like it had to be seen forever, for no other reason than to be what can't be brought back to. If a large enough table was set, it wouldn't ever need me at the head, because well water, like two, can't be eaten, two unpalatable losses, for a gains-man, like she was betted upon, and netted too many things. It wasn't like she needed it. It needed a broadening of a dirty game, because remembering your errors, like marking profiles of legal binders, moves too many to speak for, Stands your guise against a foe. In robes, they would. But, to be honest to a guest, that plate would return a hefty sum. He moved, but he said that you, you he said, why you. You, he said moved too much. And that mask was still so much of a thing to move me. Not that I doubted. Not that I pained. I accept. " - Myles W. Marc Swanton Sarah's Sister

[solstice-of-89-blog]

"She liked stepping hotly into wooden planked floors of rooms, one by one, and marking them all with nothing. Then later, she knew everyone at the warehouse, and sat and chirped angrily, very much so. Angrily, at the mutts, at the babes in Christ. She knew him well, and he always said silently, oh, you look like spilled milk, sometimes. I needed a circle, he'd say, and for some, she knew him. Like a ring, he didn't want her, but needed two and a shorter notice of mail, a longer and more deliberately delivered date, maybe written, and as he wrote, she would smile, and he would nod, and she knew that she had been spotted watching him work. Bean sprout. Walking distance was always easier alone. " - Myles W. Marc Swanton Drowned Butter

[solstice-of-89-blog]

"Do you? I wouldn't. Not past here. I said much ado to the leaving of my favorite paper marks, a mess I made. I did. A mess of it. I didn't let that higher marksman mark it, though, and asunder I through his marks, when another day, that man said pou pou to the world of synagogues and seams. Big thin lines, large errors of her little behind. A lace not, perhaps cotton this time, just once, so I could lift a kissing note, a plucked extraneous shade, an enormous drag of red's attention! to her, the clementine today, the young freedom of Foucault. I would, don't dare me, please white walls, don't be. The little daring knife dweller, ripper of air, seamstress of the hand picked cutting towards her long forgotten visit to the fields of a row, nor columns. Up to me? No, no. Not a lie to me. My hate for time was my birthmark. Foile du tipo lia cuarto sente fuerte monte bene. To yours and mine. I like my chances. But not mine for her. I'll sneak a peck, and she'll play chase. Go tell it to my stolen golden bending band. " - Myles W. Marc Swanton Distraction of Cossacks and Their Panties

[solstice-of-89-blog]

"Two banana leaves, and the calendar dates for our vacation, where we went looking for small crabs, unlike the ones fairly and strangely similar to those we left on the Atlantic's shore, And because seagulls can't bare the thought of dissent in their fisherman flock, to be seen eating delicacies of and without beach rats, A copycat murder, a behind the scenes, small community effort to wheel and deal the century, Like the shore, like meeting an Alma Mater, like by proxy, you may serve our riches by saving the buck and stopping its short sightedness. Broadening the definition of keeping me locked and the trigger pinned to wisdom of intuition, and to her purple enclosure, because this was what we brought to the table, learned to be empty of nothing, to stay safe and demand libertous loss Je me tu a l'mar du tromp en l'atrices elles noir. Of the eyes, a pair of lenses, and a large round definition of desperate kings and losses against our daughter's, is what they said. I fear the loyal. " - Myles W. Marc Swanton Your Baby Heart an Artichoke and a Parliament of Mice

[solstice-of-89-blog]

Post, 1995

[solstice-of-89-blog]

Evil is knowing better, but willingly doing worse.

Philip Zimbardo (via quotemadness)

[solstice-of-89-blog]

Bonjour Tristesse (1958) // Blue is the Warmest Color (2013)

[solstice-of-89-blog]

"Jesuit and hall monitoring seems a fast to the shore, to the field of tin and when it came around, I'm fairly certain that I had done in a plagiaristic king, an allowance, We know this much. So, when he says he needs time, I think it means to say, the well to do have a lot of packed lunches, while the Japanese have women who stick their neck out for men who would rather be beheaded, for their own overshot targets. Lastingly tall pines always went through numbering patterns for her safety, patterns of which she always saw as magical principles for which their union could capitalize on, well, it couldn't. As a matter of fact, it couldn't. It would fear a constant effort of misunderstanding. He was a dancer, and he knew how to leave a large wedding party wet on the cheek with saline, and to light little notions of flaming hot remembrances for me. It made me afraid to call him by his title. But, it was because he had a name game to play, something that's often shrugged off, when it is obvious that not everyone plays kindly. Nasty tire marks, rope burn, fatty tissue, snow and nose bleeds, it all could have killed, Like a sound name. I think that there are ways to be okay with that. I think that she had nice hips. And that he was motivated. And that when we planned weddings, the dancer in her did something. But, not necessarily do I believe that it was anyone but a kindly old bruiser of a woman, And a few by which I might like to be counted." - Myles W. Swanton Purity apart from My Coming of Age

[solstice-of-89-blog]

Forgotten to mother a Mary. I love you, Kaya.

[solstice-of-89-blog]

"Silent television and a set of oblong bricks, as far as I could see, as there was a set, square rule to my producing weight of clipped wings, cleaned bodies, and food forever, as we missed pure fear, For our nomenclature, for our separatist votes, clean records, and locks of hair. We'd not see our wide wrath, and I now see why the fish see a way out, the world, a plentiful place. She said, buddy, I sit here, you're not my studious seat, nor my forever, my forgiving, because I like drinking when I sit, no longer margaritas. Leafy, shapely weeds that of which I'd not call anything. And, the two were swimming on, and in the school, He was her salvè menté toto bené. Rhubarb, rhubarb, rhubarb. " - Myles W. Marc Swanton Migration of Winos Or Donning

[solstice-of-89-blog]

"Black and white, coarse hair, and the perfect trailhead for a foggy day, with the horses, I've found that the commanders of military are quite fond, of never listening to anything except their old masters, their old luck symbols, a song that the older one sang, a place to plan the older one's life, a place to beg the older one's forgiveness. Mid-race, she saw that the name and number on her jockey's bib maxed out for the fourth time. The half of my glass had been finished, so we ordered our courses, An intimate blackness to the room, but with French love, I met those who would not be willing to see anything of pain, I never made it past eleventh grade, and she was an undergraduate, with boisterous feelings for that unseen group of men, whose dates and bells had rung. The older one and the young elder had a bit of a dispute, like Galway and the boy's north county. It would make sense that, I see a pinnacle, she sees reverberating drink, a vacation, whereas the men see money. The business, of which we put on, the making of prideful parents and our names, could have been distant relatives, yet I know. Yet, I know the weight of always looking up, the causes of seeing below, and the cat's paws on branches. And Katie, it's not clear. Where I come from. You are subversively my equal. And, I apologize. Le fleur du noir, the killing fields, and the process of figuring by seeing blood first, to run at your death's door, would. It would be your, and is, your end. Creameries for young tastes of cats. Slightly older elders and marriage. " - Myles W. Marc Swanton For the Everyman

[solstice-of-89-blog]

"Today, I looked peach, he spoke, and had not seen her, sand in between opening roses, red, a month's correctness, When the mouths of moths, too close, water went to a bench, and when it hit not, he and she noticed their girl, their sign, as why she spoke not, the halls were taken by 200 words, long in effort, and papers all in order, tobacco rolled in on hands, He was, is not, he and she couldn't have made a skipping stone better, so, she sits again, Locked to nothing, Hannah, my vest, Best man to the side, if I could see a sign in the North. A burning church, Coffee, listing, quiche and coffee with my wife, And wheat, in a few small bars, " - Myles W. Marc Swanton Black Iron And Wooden Smiths