janepaulette
a compass should always be old and worn and slightly wrong
in a wooden box kept in corduroy pockets
with a dusty smell of matches and the necessary presence of its owner who can discern and interpret its eccentricities
a compass should be a thing that doesn't work for anyone but you
how can we know anything
i remember learning the words to do with knowing and the different ways of learning
by experience
by fact
dividing philosophical debate when really i guess its a great melange of the sensual
we were due
the great fate
always due and always late
lying like dew intermittently between sun and rain
always due but never arriving
a constant arrival or never arrival
duly
due
undue
i am determined to be determined about my determined future
i get tired of trying to be determined. determination (termination being the optimum composite) is more appealing to me
i wish it was a purchasable commodity
methods of madness methods of stirring
a mortal and pestle is a method
it makes me think of serious old white men who studied law and medicine with guts and dust spilling over their books. old methods
what is contained in a marble? it's a little excretion of a lie - something that looks beautiful and intangible but is a shitty smudge of colour in sham-glass. I don't know why so many generations of children have cried over them, or old people despaired for losing theirs...
My grandmother used to spend hours as a child practising drawing horses. She adored them. She showed me an old bound book that taught her how: she would build up from bone to sinew and then finally add their soft coats. I think she liked horses more than people, which is understandable considering her upbringing. What's heartbreaking is that she's still never ridden.
my grandfather's study was under the old wooden staircase, tucked beneath the dusty balustrades. It was always kept locked and filled with a myriad precious things, things that made no sense and were endlessly mysterious to a 5 year old.
something I haven't heard in a while from myself. sounds too distant and false, shuts up when you imagine the horrific mouth contortions. animals don't need to laugh. did they escape it via evolution or did we create it ourselves?
oh the flare of the night
the city below
a thousand tiny flame particles moving around, orbiting the black mass we are perched so precariously on
the flare of the scape is too far from us, it divides us still.
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