Lust is Saturday night; love is Sunday morning.

To love somebody is not just a strong feeling - it is a decision, it is a judgment, it is a promise. If love were only a feeling, there would be no basis for the promise to love each other forever. A feeling comes and it may go. How can I judge that it will stay forever, when my act does not involve judgement and decision? - Erich Fromm, The Art of Loving

V

caut

too chill too fuck

vreau miau
vreau acasa
sau sa vina casa la mine
sau sa vii
am obosit sa astep

merci

trece multisoara lume pe blogul asta
nu stiu de ce vine
ce gaseste
si ce ia
din toate care le scriu aici
dar va multumesc ca-mi cititi monoloagele
e misto sa stii ca nu esti chiar asa de singur
tu si taracanii tai

pop s a

si pe noi ne leaga locuri
si muzici
si texte
si gesturi
si priviri
si hoinareli intelectuale
si popsaua din noi

si ne lipim de legaturile astea
ca sa nu ne despartim de noi insine
si ne tinem de fiece fir fragil
in speranta ca-l mai putem depana

aducem jertfe memoriei
ascundem faptele
le inlocuim cu naluci
aprindem focuri in inimi
trezim fluturii din stomac
noi putem orice
suntem tineri si prosti
avem toate drepturile si scuzele

home

am vazut Contact
am ascultat si citit si gandit diverse chestii
noi suntem singuri
sau ba
noi suntem minunati
sau ba
noi suntem
sau ba

acuma tre de-l citit un pic pe badea Sagan

vulcan

opun rezistenta

dar ea cheama

cealalta

poate rezist

poate plec

ascunzis

miau1

miau2

metamorphosis

In former days Bob Arctor had run his affairs differently: there had been a wife much like other wives, two small daughters, a stable household that got swept and cleaned and emptied out daily, the dead newspapers not even opened carried from the front walk to the garbage pail, on even, sometimes, read. But then one day, while lifting out an electric corn popper from under the sink, Arctor had hit his head on the corner of a kitchen cabinet directly above him. The pain, the cut in his scalp, so unexpected and undeserved, had for some reason cleared away the cobwebs. It lashed on him instantly that he didn't hate the kitchen cabinet: he hated his wife, his two daughters, his whole house, the back yard with its power mower, the garage, the radiant heating system, the front yard, the fence, the whole fucking place and everyone in it. He wanted a divorce; he wanted to split. And so he had, very soon. And entered, by degrees, a new and somber life, lacking all of that.

walking for miles

Hilma af Klint (1862–1944) was a Swedish artist and mystic whose paintings were amongst the first abstract art. She belonged to a group called ‘The Five’ and the paintings or diagrams were a visual representation of complex philosophical ideas.