new house, new studio, less people, more room.
maybe now i can finally get some work done.
Taken with instagram
if the press goes under we’re sunk - you understand that? by jesus, we have a responsibility! a free press is vital! if a pack of deadbeats get a hold of this newspaper it’s the beginning of the end. first they’ll get this one, then they’ll get a few more, and one day they’ll get a hold of the Times - can you imagine it?
—
from the rum diary, hunter s. thompson
well, wave goodbye to the sinking ship folks. the free press is just about dead.
you’re sad because you’re sad
it’s psychic. it’s the age. it’s chemical.
go see a shrink or take a pill,
or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll
you need to sleep.
well, all children are sad
but some get over it.
count your blessings. better than that,
buy a hat. buy a coat or a pet.
take up dancing to forget.
forget what?
your sadness, your shadow,
whatever it was that was done to you
the day of the lawn party
when you came inside flushed with the sun,
your mouth sulky with sugar,
in your new dress with the ribbon
and the ice-cream smear,
and said to yourself in the bathroom,
i am not the favorite child.
my darling, when it comes
right down to it
and the light fails and the fog rolls in
and you’re trapped in your overturned body
under a blanket or burning car
and the red flame is seeping out of you
and igniting the tarmac beside your head
or else the floor, or else the pillow,
none of us is;
or else we all are.
—a sad child, margaret atwood.
i forgot to tell you my husband
died. he was in spain and something
strange happened with alcohol or water. he loved them
both so much.
-priscilla becker
And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter — they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
—Sylvia Plath (via listensostill) (via fuckyeahsylviaplath) (via loversinleagueagainstsatan)
for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate with his capacity for wonder.
—f. scott fitzgerald, the great gatsby
