This blog does not belong to a selachimorpha of any kind
(It belongs to Ethan Ashley).


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Apr 20, 2014
@ 11:45 pm
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no more outside no-no-no no-no-no


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Apr 20, 2014
@ 11:45 pm
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no more outside no more future no thank you


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Apr 20, 2014
@ 11:43 pm
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no more outside cockless cuntless mouthless wondrous


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Apr 20, 2014
@ 11:43 pm
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no more outside not too bright


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Apr 20, 2014
@ 11:42 pm
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no more outside has no more family has a hole


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Apr 20, 2014
@ 11:41 pm
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no more outside can break teeth on this table


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Apr 20, 2014
@ 11:38 pm
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howling worthless


Quote

Apr 6, 2014
@ 1:20 pm
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2,163 notes

The problem is no longer getting people to express themselves, but providing little gaps of solitude and silence in which they might eventually find something to say. Repressive forces don’t stop people from expressing themselves, but rather, force them to express themselves. What a relief to have nothing to say, the right to say nothing, because only then is there a chance of framing the rare, or ever rarer, the thing that might be worth saying.

— Gilles Deleuze, “Mediators” (via allisonburtch)


Video

Mar 8, 2014
@ 1:54 pm
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311 notes

theparisreview:

Listen to William S. Burroughs read his novel Naked Lunch.


Text

Mar 8, 2014
@ 1:54 pm
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1 note

problem with living with others

can’t have a crossdressing tea party spur of the moment.


Photo

Feb 21, 2014
@ 3:16 pm
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11 notes


Text

Feb 8, 2014
@ 1:47 pm
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5 notes

logik

A tornado is the sky’s warrant for an execution.

An execution is a show of humanity for those who doubt their own blood.

Blood is opaque in a liar and clear in those who tell the truth.

Truth is a stripe of blackened text.

Text is a series of symbols that arise from a conceited exorcism.

An exorcism is when all the fluids intaken are pushed out the throat.

The throat is the hallway whose walls hold my picture.

A picture is the tomb of a moment.

A moment is the sensuous this.

This is this.

This is this.

This is this.

This is this.

This this is.

Is is a state where one can once breathe.

Breath is the loosening of a valve.

A valve is what restrains the deep insides.

Inside is my eye wheatpasted to a blaring screen.

A screen is the hole which pretends it is not a hole.

A hole is what patiently grows under each home.

A home is the end.

The end is this.

This is this.

This is this.

This is this.

This is this.

This is this.

This is this… 


Photo

Feb 4, 2014
@ 10:31 am
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6 notes

pjgoring:

CLOUDCROSS 
i dunno if it’s just me, but i just made this and it is blowing me away lol

not just you

pjgoring:

CLOUDCROSS 

i dunno if it’s just me, but i just made this and it is blowing me away lol

not just you


Text

Dec 10, 2013
@ 11:38 pm
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4 notes

neu

Room-guzzling orphan what do you make of this new cage, the one where have been thin strings singing aharmonies for days?

It. It says:
-Oh the ceiling here is higher, oh the space is great but feels still unsafe.

It says chromatically, this, ascending then descending. The strings whirl around the ceiling like amphetamine snakes, like thunder coils. When they touch a gong rings backwards into itself something coming from the Out into them to be absorbed.

It. It has blocks with which to play, with which edges have been cut to curves so as it does not hurt itself. With which it has been making colorful pieces which began as self-portraits and have become something very else. Something which is an invertebrate, echinoderm art.
It is disgusted by the hollowness of canvases, the blank space between the wood and the wall, and so chose blocks as a medium. Unquestionably dense. Blocks too are low to the ground where the thin strings don’t reach to snap. Where when it stands it feels the old bruises welt up on its back. By monitor I say:

And this dream and this dream you have made for me. I am so thankful. Oh wasn’t it worthwhile?

-I don’t still know the feeling of nothing, but I am working hard for it.

Oh is there more?

-And more and more and more.

My glee screeches feedback.


Quote

Dec 9, 2013
@ 9:37 am
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17 notes

My soul walks with me, form of forms. So in the moon’s midwatches I pace the path above the rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore’s tempting flood.

— James Joyce, Ulysses (via pensivefrangipani)

(via antilogostheliterarymachine-dea)