The thing about leaving home, that self proclaimed exile, is that you love it even more if it is that bird that sings you the answer when you visit it after being gone for extended periods of time. The longer you are away the more you will think about going back. If only for your eyes to weep at the changes.

Two insane idiots with the same idea, that is what love is.

Most of the conversation was said with our eyes. Our eyes told truths neither of us could understand. Her a Goddess and me her pew. It was spent with me looking at her and her looking elsewhere. Perpendicular.

The abyss is black and eventually I know I will smile, laugh even knowing all I think I know, maniacally while I howl at anything I could see that would laugh, snarl and howl the way I do.

Nature, or the natural, that is what we find beauty in. The idea that some idea belongs in part of an order. That it is more than coincidence or a strange occurrence or a singular moment but rather that it is a coincidence or a strange occurrence or a singular moment that is natural to our being is what makes it beautiful. As if being anywhere else but where we are would be wrong, a pale version of the beauty our hearts imagined.

Degrading to atoms, conscious or not. The world was always and never falling apart.

People spend time trying to impress people through the things they do and say in a tone any louder than a gasped whisper. The mass commodification of cool is perverse in the sense that the individual defining the term has its basis in what they think others will idolise in their own individuality. If there was no ego there would be no cool. If there was no cool, people would see more beauty. They would stop seeing their lives as more important than others based on what they themselves value

We were all deeply more ourselves than we had been before.

Nature was beautiful and I felt in tune with the universe, like every single decision I had made had brought me to here, to the glowing now. And here is such a beautiful place to be