"a sound like someone trying not to make a sound."
never ever. never never ever. never never never never open the door in the floor.
2006-12-12
yesterday i was cycling.
along the coast at sembawang, it started pouring. in buckets and spades. along the coast the wind blew the rain and you could see the rain forming patterns on the floor, like the metronomic sine line of a heart meter.
in the distance of the sea you can see giant rigs, with protrusions like the eiffel tower or horns. the heavy rain blanketed this vision, muting it. it shimmered in and out of focus through this white noise. static in 3-d.
it was strangely beautiful in an apocalyptic way. it is beautiful in the same way Blade Runner is beautiful in its own defeatist way.
along the coast at sembawang, it started pouring. in buckets and spades. along the coast the wind blew the rain and you could see the rain forming patterns on the floor, like the metronomic sine line of a heart meter.
in the distance of the sea you can see giant rigs, with protrusions like the eiffel tower or horns. the heavy rain blanketed this vision, muting it. it shimmered in and out of focus through this white noise. static in 3-d.
it was strangely beautiful in an apocalyptic way. it is beautiful in the same way Blade Runner is beautiful in its own defeatist way.
2006-12-07
2006-12-06
its times like this when i feel the insatiable desire for unrepentant freedom.
and when i think of that i always imagine myself in a car, top down, driving down an empty highway (route 66? haha) with the lads and music blasting (played from a tape, of course). Calexico, Deep Down. or the Libertines maybe. We are the likely lads after all. (whatever will become of us?)
think thelma and louise, but with balls. beer drank from glass bottles, jeans unwashed for weeks and matted mottled hair. with stubble, if i had any.
where there's no where to go but anywhere. where theres nothing to accomplish but everything to do. you know, where you can howl into the night and it doesn't fucking matter.
think fear and loathing in las vegas.
yeowwww.
and when i think of that i always imagine myself in a car, top down, driving down an empty highway (route 66? haha) with the lads and music blasting (played from a tape, of course). Calexico, Deep Down. or the Libertines maybe. We are the likely lads after all. (whatever will become of us?)
think thelma and louise, but with balls. beer drank from glass bottles, jeans unwashed for weeks and matted mottled hair. with stubble, if i had any.
where there's no where to go but anywhere. where theres nothing to accomplish but everything to do. you know, where you can howl into the night and it doesn't fucking matter.
think fear and loathing in las vegas.
yeowwww.
2006-12-04
Rumour has it that it was the beat that his heart skipped that killed him. Another rumour says that we breathe in pairs except at either ends of our life.
It's like custard pies all sweet yellow and creamy made with filthy hands.
He's reaching out to his dying ideals. "Horowitz with his hands like a race horse." At the very end, its only tasted through a proxy. An "approximate".
It's like custard pies all sweet yellow and creamy made with filthy hands.
He's reaching out to his dying ideals. "Horowitz with his hands like a race horse." At the very end, its only tasted through a proxy. An "approximate".
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