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I'll take your invitation you take all of me }}

21 June 1988
External Services:
  • a_thing_sublime@livejournal.com
  • ruptured reverie AIM status
  • Kadoorie - Kfar Tavor, North district / Mehoz HaTzafon, Israel (2000 - 2006)

"I feel like a defective model, like I came off the assembly line flat-out fucked and my parents should have taken me back for repairs before the warranty ran out."

"Seems like everyone's an actor or an actor's best friend, I wonder what was wrong to begin with that they should all have to pretend."

"Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then."

"Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content."

"This hatred overtook me, and I couldn't help myself. I wanted so much to forget the past, but it wouldn't go away, it hung around like an open wound that refused to scar over, an open window that no amount of muscle could shut."

"I wanted to be more mature, more reasonable, I wanted to have a big, fat, forgiving heart that could contain all this rage and still find room for kind, beneficent love, but I didn't have it in me. I just didn't."

"I'm starting to think there is no real cure for depression. That happiness is an ongoing battle, and I wonder if it isn't one I have to fight for as long as I will live. I wonder if it's worth it."

"I read, I say. I study and read. I bet I've read everything you read. Don't think I haven't. I consume libraries. I wear out spines and ROM-drives. I do things like get in a taxi and say, "The library, and step on it." My instincts concerning syntax and mechanics are better than your own, I can tell, with all due respect. But it transcends the mechanics. I'm not a machine. I feel and believe. I have opinions. Some of them are interesting. I could, if you'd let me, talk and talk.

"Vladimir Nabokov was a writer who cared nothing for music and whose favorite sport was the pursuit, capture, and murder of butterflies. This explains many things; for example, the fact that Nabokov's novels, for all their elegance and wit, resemble nothing so much as butterflies pinned to a board: pretty but dead; symmetrical but stiff."

"Dort, wo man Bücher verbrennt, verbrennt man am Ende auch Menschen." (Where they have burned books, they will end in burning human beings.)

"Where do babies come from? Don't bother asking adults. They lie like pigs. However, diligent independent research and hours of playground consultation have yielded fruitful, if tentative, results. There are several theories. Near as we can figure out, it has something to do with acting ridiculous in the dark. We believe it is similar to dogs when they act peculiar and ride each other. This is called "making love". Careful study of popular song lyrics, advertising catch-lines, TV sitcoms, movies, and T-Shirt inscriptions offers us significant clues as to its nature. Apparently it makes grown-ups insipid and insane. Some graffiti was once observed that said "sex is good". All available evidence, however, points to the contrary."

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