米英only英厨画手,Progressive Rock中毒。为了考据而乱屯东西的地方。涂鸦、脑洞、阅读、歌词、台词摘抄。



 Betrayals in war are childlike compared with our betrayals during peace. New lovers are nervous and tender, but smash everything-for the heart is an organ of fire. 

    My darling -I’m waiting for you. How long is a day in the dark? Or a week? The fire is gone now and I’m horrible cold. I really ought to drag myself outside but then there’d be the sun. I’m afraid I waste the light on the paintings and on writing these words. We die. We die rich with lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have entered, and swum up like rivers. Fears we’ve hidden in, like this wretched cave. I want all this marked on my body. We’ve the real countries. Not the boundaries draw on maps, the names of powerful men. I know you’ll come and carry me out into the palace of winds. That’s all I’ve wanted, to walk in such a place with you, with friends. An Earth without maps. The lamp’s gone out and I’m writing in the darkness. 


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