the ironical aspect of all this romance is the tired rosiness of your possibility, the very perfunctory grimace of my own childhood, the lasting impact that we all left to you, desirable and insipid not quite the performer, not quite the ballerina, but always fortunate and considerate, always maneuvering into the wilderness without promise or [...]
listen to me my darling, as i scribble thoughtlessly in my journal, listen to me as i speak with the tongue of arabian kings and delightful sorrow, there is not heaven nor injury nor love nor pursuits worth accepting in my own mind, just the dirty knowledge of my own antiquity, my own memory, my [...]
the liars poker has endured long enough and the fortunate surroundings of antiquity have placated my sorrow indefinitely. without my own understanding, without my own thought or sensibility, there is nothing left. nothing to ruin my heart, nothing to tell my face that there is not love here not love not empathy not regret, just [...]
the violent supremity of my own doom was near but i could not hear myself wish for death. i could only assume that with such loss and with such endeavours such as this i was not meant to live or die or live or anything at all, that i was only dead and loving moments [...]
the days of reckoning have passed and the assurances of a lifestyle not bent on fame have diminished. i have taken the film stock of my youth and put my faith in the tired lights of the cinema. grounded in the betrayal of a majesty’s betrayal i can say to the farmer and her daughter [...]