Last night I had another dream where I met myself as a child. I was an ugly little urchin of a child. Wonder what the hell that was all about.

He wanted to write but could not do so; after two or three lines, he would let go of the paper and cry in impotent rage. I told him he was a writer even if he never wrote a single page, and that gave him some comfort. He wanted me to teach him to write, but writing is not a profession, it is a curse; his terrible fate was to be touched by the curse while his mental condition actually prevented him from writing. I never loved him as much as on the day I saw him facing that piece of paper, and crying because he could not write.

I never understood madness too well but feel that in a way insane people are angels who, unable to bear the realities around them, must somehow take refuge in another world.

-Reinaldo Arenas, Before Night Falls

Kyle just committed infanticide. We found a little one in a bucket and he took it outside and threw it off the porch into the deep snow. Our first victim.

Drunk History vol. 1 - Featuring Michael Cera

brilliant.

The House Is Black (1/2)

خانه سیاه است

Farough Farrokhzad. فروغ فرخزاد

1962, Iranian leper colony.

Wow.

The House Is Black (2/2)