Text 13 Jul Pablo Neruda

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.” 

Text 9 Jul Things that bite in the night

The fact that you haven’t written in weeks or months and the faint idea that it might be because you CAN’T. But there’s no laptop, there’s no inspiration, there’s no stability but the endless uncertainty makes you too anxious to reflect. There’s just computer screens and numbers and dollar signs washed up in pints of beer and endless wine and an extra 10kg to carry on yourself. But 10kg is not the weight of the world.

Text 26 Jun love’s long wail

sometimes sounds so close to despair

Text 11 Jun Because you’re lonely and i’m homely

but it’s a home with no heaters

Text 10 Jun Substances and Inspiration

I don’t know how so many great writers, singers and artists can be alcoholics or drug addicts when any and all substances just leave me in a cocoon of depression or euphoria. Neither one is romantic or inspired and inevitably ends with me lying on my bed eating haribo.

Quote 4 Jun 105 notes
I strained to remember where I was or even what I was wearing, touching my green corduroy jeans and staring at the exposed-brick wall. As my paranoia deepened, I became convinced that I had died and no one was telling me.
— Maureen Dowd on eating a piece of cannabis-laced chocolate. She had way more than the recommended serving amount for novices. (via shortformblog)
Text 18 May about me:

(a) pathetic.

Text 6 May 3 notes so you want to be a writer?
if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.


if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.


Charles Bukowski
Text 2 May Saturday 12.20am

lost and alone in the infinite abyss of my own being

Text 23 Apr snapping up

I still feel sad when I think about all of the bills and insurance which he so carefully paid on time. His insurance he paid too much for but never claimed. His shirts which were always pressed and his important letters which were never misplaced. And what does it account to and who was it for? 

Everyone is snapping up the presents they bought this year, last year, the one before that and then decades ago. Another personal endearing quality was that even if he had no use nor like for a present, he would keep it on the sentiment that someone made an effort to give it to him. A small heap of cards I made, clumsily bound by ribbons and with half glued patches of glitter and sad drawings. It all bears testimony to this.

But back to the presents — it’s like flies humming around shit which is not an allusion I like to make on any human level but everything they take and everything he has to offer is so meaningless because it has been so utterly expelled from the person.  There is no traces of him to be found in the designer collinder or flat screen television. The walls are being covered to be sold on. Life goes on.


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