There Are Black, Very Fine, Specks Of Dust That Stick To My Face At The End Of Each Day

kind of weird how parts of your soul are left in various locations without any warning… like yes i’m always at the top of that hill, sitting at the bus stop, in the cool light of the Japanese restaurant, standing at the pier etc etc

Dance as an act of rebellion. Dance as an act of joy.

“To detach yourself elegantly from the world; to give contour and grace to sadness; a solitude in style; a walk that gives cadence to memories; stepping towards the intangible; with the breath in the trembling margins of things; the past reborn in the overflow of fragrances; the smell, through which we conquer time; the contour of the invisible things; the forms of the immaterial; to deepen yourself in the intangible; to touch the world airborne by smell; aerial dialogue and gliding dissolution; to bathe in your own reflecting fragmentation […]”

— Emil Cioran, The Book Of Delusions (via prosetrose-blog)

Priests and monks blessing server rooms and sprinkling holy water on computer systems as a way to prevent them from ever shutting down

More at source

“My real self wanders elsewhere, far away, wanders on and on invisibly and has nothing to do with my life.”

— Hermann Hesse  (via lavandula)

the extinct folktek omnichord