runāja zaralustra un reizēm klusēja - February 11th, 2015

šķiet, pirmā jēdzīgā piktogramma, ko esmu uzzīmējis.

"Leeloo Marbles @maebemarbles· Feb 7
*mouse finally makes his way to the end of the maze and finds the cheese*
*he turns around and goes back for his friends*"

/zaralustra wishes that could still be in a world where one could deeply emphatize with a [looks for a word in his head]
/zaralustra can't find word fit. because his brain is lit. and there is no answer fit.
/zaralustra sighs.

neesmu noskatījies nevienu filmu pēdējo, šķiet, ka trīs, bet varētu būt arī veselu sešu mēnešu, laikā.
vienkārši nevaru. mēģināšu pārlekt.

man sāp tas, kas zaudēts. tik daudz kas ir zaudēts. un neatgūstams.
vienīgo gaismu šajā sajūtā nes tas, ka kāds no tiem desmitiem, kas bijis klātesošs manā dzīvē visas tās garumā, visā tās gaismā, visā tās tumsā, visā tās vibratio. ka šis kāds par to spētu reflektēt pietiekoši augstā kvalitātē, lai tam būtu nedaudz vairāk jēgas par traģiskas dzīves atstāstu. tā lai atreyu turpinātu lasīt. tā, lai tu turpinātu elpot ar sirdi. tā, lai tu neviļus novērstos un pamanītu, ka gaisā pieklājīgu labvakaru piesaka rudens, bet tēja uz galda ir atdzisusi. un tu esi. tik ļoti esi.
kafkas spoks, savukārt, tajā laikā ar tām iemūrētajām jaunāvām vienkārši tur dejo, dejo. un iedzer aliņu aukstu. un pizdohertijs kaut kur turpat pišas ar parisu hiltoni uz ierakstu plaukta. turpat ir tālu.
bet te ir tagad. te. ir tagad. digitāla nopūta. un cilvēcisks aukstums. es būtu domājis, ka būtu baisi tā justies. bet nav. vienkārši ir. un nekā savādāk šobrīd nav.

because cocoa. nevermind.

I let go of what my body once held. if I am, I'm already there. I don't look back.
and with samurai's grip I pick up my sword, put it in my scabbard. and go further. don't look back, I repeat to myself. and I wander on.

You know, someone once told rock'n'roll is dead? One person I know once said sex is dead. You know what I say? The world is dead.

posted this on twitter, then found out that my aunt had passed away tonight. hard to explain the feeling.
what's worst - the inability to dwell in that lousy, human emotion burst-tangle. I just pass on. and barely feel ashamed for my humanity slipping away from me like sand in ones hands. the definitely not an artist owl but probably admires my talent only with a glimpse of thought proposed that maybe I try to wrap this up in a bit more writing. so it becomes an actual text that is worth reading. I refused the impulse at first. then realize that there is no need to be any other way than I am now. I realize that I'm ok. I realize that I'm still breathing and I'm fine. and am great in all my human crookedness. and I realize that taking that option for a writers manifestation here what comes in at firsthand - writing about how "not alive" but not dead either I feel. realizing that it would be an absolute jackass thing to do.
good morning.

klausos Sleater-Kinney jau labu laiku. nepretojos atmosfērai, ko šīs dāmas uzstāda, nemeklēju neko, negaidu, un, apbrīnojami, bet atkal jūtos neaprakstāmi dzīvs. un harmonijā.

I would be really happy if the harsh realistic thought that the feeling that I again have been honored to be visited by my pal Jesus, might just be the naughty bears trick to push me to a certain direction (realm of ambiences) - towards woods of wicked puppetry, exploiting ones most sacred and private moments for some wicked evildoing. I'd be really happy if I was stupid enough not to think that far. I'm still happy. I forget things fast. Did not forget the first visit of Jesus, though. we decided to quit drugs, at least for a while then. did not work out. I smile sincerely.

“Who is more to be pitied, a writer bound and gagged by policemen or one living in perfect freedom who has nothing more to say?” ― Kurt Vonnegut

oh, my, simply, rolling on the floor laughing. layered cake to feed ones human dījāmamons.

Always remember that there is a Monroe in my Macaulay Manson Freeman.

My bright advice - John without Peter is an egoistic lunatic, jacking off while looking in a mirror.
I'll take the pair only. Peter without John is dead. Pretty much how the chemical shrapnel in my head feels like, but worse than this for sure.
So, John. Simply STFU. Which one was the guy who gets things done?
Poncy the who?

Par nopietno. Priekš mūsu valsts kvadratūras. It sevišķi priekš vienas mazas Rīgas kvadratūras mums ir pilnīgā dirsā ar medijiem. Būtībā esam sabūvējuši štābus ienaidniekam. Protams, tie būtu mediji kā jau mediji, ja mēs dzīvotu normālā valstī [redaktora piezīme: autors uzskata, ka normāla ir valsts, kurā 99% respondentu aptaujā par jautājumu "Par cik var nopirkt tavu māti?" atbild ar pisaku pa seju].

Then, wait, I better call who?

I love this thing. What I love more than the thing that I actually don't give much f*ck about (at least in this form) is - Da Vincis narcissistic tendencies manifesting. He surely thought that other people are more or less idiots. Like me - at times when my darkest nightmares [note that I am probably the most naive person you'll ever meet] have proven to be true.

I've exceeded my "it's ok to be a dick" limit for today. So I'll take a nice cup of shut the fu*k up.

A: Hello! Is this the Who?
B: You've reached Saul Goodmans office, sir.
A: Well, then, excuse me, I must have made an error.
B: Oh, that's OK, sir, better luck next time.
A: Goodbye.
B: Goodbye.