Cigarettes Will Kill You - Ben Lee (by simpl3xity)
Ink & Night
This is a tumblelog, kinda like a blog but with short-form, mixed-media posts with stuff I like. Scroll down a bit to start reading, or a bit more to read more about me.
Bush - Glycerine (by CultureClubfoot)
The Smashing Pumpkins - 1979 (by SmashingPumpkinsVEVO)
“
There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover’s whisper, irresistible—magic to make the sanest man go mad.
—
Homer, The Iliad
Homer, The Iliad
BT - All That Makes Us Human Continues (by OGRevexe)
Moderat - 3 Minutes of Nasty Silence (by Gloamingo)
“
I think that if somebody has to make an artistic piece of work that they will do it no matter what and they will just get on and do it and get a move on. Time, money, competition and those other things will always be there but if you dont get a move on you will just end up surviving from one very shit job, doing lots of inconsequential, immaterial and deluded things to really, the next.
You have a choice, I have a choice and every shit job brings me closer to some asylum. I do not think I will enjoy an asylum and cannot continue to pardon myself for wasting my years and killing myself a little each passing, working day.
I have no desire to add theatre, but if one can kill themself without actually doing so, then I do that each day, and stab, pluck, grind, and drill mercilessly the creative tissue from the sacred pit of my being. Eventually there will be nothing left and I will be prepared to forsake curiosity, imagination, learning and so that I can wake up, pack my lunch, commute to work, log on, check my email and make small talk about how my weekend was.
Well, screw that, this is my life and this is the last year that I will do a SHIT job, come rain, hail or fucking shine.
You have a choice, I have a choice and every shit job brings me closer to some asylum. I do not think I will enjoy an asylum and cannot continue to pardon myself for wasting my years and killing myself a little each passing, working day.
I have no desire to add theatre, but if one can kill themself without actually doing so, then I do that each day, and stab, pluck, grind, and drill mercilessly the creative tissue from the sacred pit of my being. Eventually there will be nothing left and I will be prepared to forsake curiosity, imagination, learning and so that I can wake up, pack my lunch, commute to work, log on, check my email and make small talk about how my weekend was.
Well, screw that, this is my life and this is the last year that I will do a SHIT job, come rain, hail or fucking shine.
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