Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Things hadn't been what they were, but it is that, the sense of loss, soluble lossitude, the anger keeps soaring, it reaches the boiling point, but it's choked already, expressionless face, loud and without limbs - "The crisis has become permanent" -. The numbness is intimately absolute, and the mere existence of the other a fact that doesn't unfold. Friendship experienced like a trembling mannequin, the skin quite deadened, like a branch weary from the summer tide. The fury is extinguished. Exquisite Christian sin, ecstatic beauty, anonymous lawlessness, Protestant opposition to a warm bleeding Oriental delight. The logic itself transfigured into a swordly ailment; this landscape always the same: Murderous island.