Sacrifice

Secrecy

Secrecy flows through you, a different kind of blood. It’s as if you’ve eaten it like a bad candy, taken it into your mouth, let it melt sweetly on your tongue, then allowed it to slide down your throat like the reverse of uttering, a word dissolved into its glottals and sibilants, a slow intake of breath—

And now it’s in you, secrecy. Ancient and vicious, luscious as dark velvet. It blooms in you, a poppy made of ink.

You can think of nothing else. Once you have it, you want more. What power it gives you! Power of knowing without being known, power of the stone door, power of the iron veil, power of the crushed fingers, power of the drowned bones crying out from the bottom of the well. Margaret atwood

every time a supposed communist decides that whatever political upheaval they're currently in is finally the one historical event entirely inexplicable from material interests and due to the crazy idiocy of the people in charge, a cia agent gets a promotion

Aquarium

“And I know it must die, for its hour is o'er; Folding its impotent hands at last, Hands too weary to pluck any more The flowers of the past!”                         

Maurice Maeterlinck

incredibly fascinating to see liberals who have cheered on the destruction of the soviet union and consider the reintroduction of capitalism to eastern europe to be positive/an act of liberation suddenly being really confused and scratching their head as to how there could possibly be a resurgence of fascism across europe

Suehiro Maruo

The Passions

Narrow paths my passions tread: Laughter rings there, sorrow cries; Sick and sad, with half-shut eyes, Thro' the leaves the woods have shed,         My sins like yellow mongrels slink; Uncouth hyenas, my hates complain, And on the pale and listless plain Couching low, love's lion's blink.

        Maurice Maeterlinck

Mark Fisher's interview with Burial, December 2012

Sonnet of the Sweet Complaint

“ Never let me lose the marvel of your statue-like eyes, or the accent the solitary rose of your breath places on my cheek at night.   I am afraid of being, on this shore, a branchless trunk, and what I most regret is having no flower, pulp, or clay for the worm of my despair.   If you are my hidden treasure, if you are my cross, my dampened pain, if I am a dog, and you alone my master,   never let me lose what I have gained, and adorn the branches of your river with leaves of my estranged Autumn.” Federico García Lorca