| Return of the Wolfhounds |
[Oct. 12th, 2012|09:12 am] |
"Ooh, nearly got a smile" said the Danish nurse in my old man's boozer. I told her to fuck off, not knowing it was her birthday. That was in England (before hysterical irony and text messages) so she started crying. Another time, a couple dizzy on life rolled into the car park to take a look at an old Volvo I was trying to sell. "Cheer up!" the guy said, "you look like you have been to a funeral". "I have" I answered (which was true). With half a heart I begged them to stay, but they were away in a kind of spastic hurry.
All of them were middle aged and I was young.
Now, I am middle aged and you are young
, so "fucking cheer up!"
|
|
|
| |
[Oct. 12th, 2012|10:31 am] |
nevaru strādāt... Can you understand something if you know the name it has been given? For example, you might know the chemical configuration of the hormone for mīlestība or iemīlēšanas (piemēram), but doesn't that just mean that you can convince yourself that you can box 'it' up (ķipa: it's just hormones) in order to control it with your intelligence?
But is there a chemical compound for this intelligence? Or is it your own idea of your own intelligence that is leading you down a one-way cul de sac to live out the rest of your days?
I'm telling you, sometimes you have to be a fucking idiot to believe the truth.
Mums ir apkure, turklāt. |
|
|