Everything is just… capitalism doesn’t work. Nothing works. Everything’s just.. shitty. But it’s fun, so whatever. It’s shitty but it’s fun so whatever.
But at the same time, you feel this inexpressible elation when you actually realize how much you’ve grown from the past year or even week for that matter. And when you’ve made something that even complete strangers can happen upon and just express how inspired it makes them, the satisfaction omits any previous desire you may have had to give it all up and become a coal miner.
The word to describe it, strangely enough for plastic music, is organic. It feels like a part of you, like something in yourself you couldn’t really enunciate until you heard it stated.
While he glared and spasmed and danced, the screen behind him and all around us came alive with dancing Anasazi nightmares, skeletons and skull-headed desert fiends.
Harry Seville considered himself to be a postmodernist. Not postmodern like the postman who came to his house every morning with a white hat and headphones, but postmodern like Fitzgerald and his brain dogs. Every morning he arose before the non-postmodern postman and attacked eggs and toast with relish but without the hot dog condiment […]
“I was naked, and there was some voice leading me through a huge forest. And I later realized that this forest were these huge cannabis plants.”
noun | rev·e·nant | \ˈre-və-ˌnäⁿ, -nənt\ | one that returns after death or a long absence
William mourned for the past, and he forgot the present, and he put off the future indefinitely.
We’re better than hatred and fear and willful ignorance.