i might have suffered a christmas carol in miniature the other night; i woke up with a lingering horror of death and the urge to become a Healthy Person. it will seem comical for a while, but project robolau has begun in earnest.
synaesthesia, because manic depressive artists are so five minutes ago.
Where was I? Oh yes: assaulted by San Francisco, looking for a film to hide in. I opened the paper, turned to the entertainment part, and when I read the double-page ads for new releases I felt a thrill in my soul, so many wonderful movies, the critics were amazed, according to the testimonials. Poets of the age! hack off your tongues. The impression dawned that we'd entered a dazzling era - this week, this single week, would glow in racial memory - and I shared it all, was in fact dazzled, you know how I respond to those ads and feel cheated later in the dark by all the fakery. But it doesn't matter. Nothing can help us anymore. There's no escaping the contradictions: but only here, at the movies - window looking out on the home from which I'm exiled - land where people look in one another's eyes feeling the words they say. That's what I wanted in life, still want, I want blue light on their breasts, wet sorrows, endnesses, endnesses, death after every satisfaction -lauren says brothers karamazov reading group; i say yes, ma'am.
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