And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
25-min-wait spent listening to the band I just seen live. that’s how good they [Archive] were. to be honest, there’s not much left to do besides staring at the departure boards, going for some BK [not hungry], overhearing phone conversations, or looking over strangers’ shoulders to what they’re posting on Facebook.
at least, it’s not that cold anymore.
it’s hard to ignore so many people, in the same place, trying hard not to be bored. feels like a reverse flash-mob.
to me, frontal stance, en garde, [bet it’ll be platform 13 anyway], I just miss.
I don’t think that writers or painters or filmmakers function because they have something they particularly want to say. They have something that they feel. And they like the art form; they like words, or the smell of paint, or celluloid and photographic images and working with actors. I don’t think that any genuine artist has ever been oriented by some didactic point of view, even if he thought he was.