The drifting aloof and floating approach
In this i wish to remain, to be deaf willfully to those things, a dynamic statement without even stating anything. Ahh those things which in varying lights have varying degrees of responses, from ick to this is so nice
A story which is a mood, and moods keep going after the last page.
Things go unfinished because they'd be over.
Venerable fiction, i said yes to that today, i was tempted by a horror series called Necroscope, but reading about it, how it has military stuff in it, a thing that draws people to it, warded me away. I'd say about 15% of what's on my kindle is venerable, Proust is a perfect example.
Venerable fiction is not just classics, but espousing the dreamy idealism that no known categorizer elucidates upon. You have to define and give it shape yourself.
A precious ocean, much smaller than the well known popular ones, a personalized ocean, upon which i can swim.
Somnabulist self, nature reverer, walking idly ruminating in a wood, in 1920's France, small town, Menilmontant opening and interludes, Jean Epstein. It is a childhood nostalgia that is never the present.
The term today as Ingeborg Bachmann says is only reserved for suicides. 2 years after Malina was published she died, not suicide, but smoking in bed accident. I smoke in bed, i extinguish them in bottles of coke where some liquid remains. Hundreds of bottles surround my lopsided bed, and even more dreamscapes, the artistic domains of the preferred, small compared to popular things, is like the TARDIS, bigger on the inside.
If i were to flippantly speak the way i'd want, there'd be a threat of kind attempts of cheering up. Like this state wasn't ideal. I must train the speech to speak of the ideal, and until then, all i can do, besides silence, is descriptive folly.
Its fragility outmatched only its elusivity.
Contra world building in favor of world being.
A story which is a mood, and moods keep going after the last page.
Things go unfinished because they'd be over.
Venerable fiction, i said yes to that today, i was tempted by a horror series called Necroscope, but reading about it, how it has military stuff in it, a thing that draws people to it, warded me away. I'd say about 15% of what's on my kindle is venerable, Proust is a perfect example.
Venerable fiction is not just classics, but espousing the dreamy idealism that no known categorizer elucidates upon. You have to define and give it shape yourself.
A precious ocean, much smaller than the well known popular ones, a personalized ocean, upon which i can swim.
Somnabulist self, nature reverer, walking idly ruminating in a wood, in 1920's France, small town, Menilmontant opening and interludes, Jean Epstein. It is a childhood nostalgia that is never the present.
The term today as Ingeborg Bachmann says is only reserved for suicides. 2 years after Malina was published she died, not suicide, but smoking in bed accident. I smoke in bed, i extinguish them in bottles of coke where some liquid remains. Hundreds of bottles surround my lopsided bed, and even more dreamscapes, the artistic domains of the preferred, small compared to popular things, is like the TARDIS, bigger on the inside.
If i were to flippantly speak the way i'd want, there'd be a threat of kind attempts of cheering up. Like this state wasn't ideal. I must train the speech to speak of the ideal, and until then, all i can do, besides silence, is descriptive folly.
Its fragility outmatched only its elusivity.
Contra world building in favor of world being.
SW-User