Es hängt an einem seidenen Faden

-It's a beautiful night, though.What?
-I never know that means, people saying it's a beautiful night. What does that mean?
-So... Well, to me... It means it's... it's comfortable, familiar. Yet deeply moving.
-Right. No, I feel you. Like, um... Like I'm stoned and listen to Steely Dan.
-No. Nothing at all like that.
-Not like... No. I know. More like an... Yeah. Like...floating down a serene lake in a rowboat when the sun is setting or like when the sun is... being a part of nature.
-Stop speaking.
-It's beautiful when the weather's not hot or cold. Kind of like you don't notice it, kind of like it's perfect 'cause everything's so balanced. You don't even feel it. And while you're feeling that non-feeling... you look up in the sky and you almost think, "That's why," because how everything is right now, all the stars and planets and us and the ground and the cells and molecules... Right now... is exactly the reason. Right now is comfortable.
-You're a now person.
- True.
-Yeah. See, I'm a five-minutes-from-now person, because five minutes from now, a gust of wind could come and blow H1 N1 in everyone's eyes.
-Right. Except that's highly unlikely.
-Or five minutes from now, an earthquake could erupt and swallow us all whole.
-Right. Except that... Shit. That could actually happen.
-Yeah - the point is I'm way too anxious about what could happen five minutes from now to be content with now. Can't do it.
-What if something good happens five minutes from now? Can't that happen?
-What did you think was gonna happen five minutes before you met me?
-Just really paranoid I'm gonna miss it. I miss things a lot.
-I don't care if l miss it because...
-You're a now person. Got it.
-So, another weird thing I don't mind your pessimism as much as I usually mind pessimism.
-That's great. I hate people who think I'm too negative.
-Also, I like your hat.
-Yeah, I'm probably gonna fall in love with you


Like there is a face on Mars

[Lydia begins reading Tony's Kushner's "Angels in America"]

Night flight to San Francisco. Chase the moon across America. God! Its been years since I was on a plane. When we hit 35,000 feet we'll have reached the tropopause... The great belt of calm air. As close as I'll ever get to the ozone.

I dreamed we were there. The plane leapt the tropopause... the safe air and attained the outer rim... the ozone which was ragged and torn... patches of it threadbare as old cheesecloth and that was... frightening.

But I saw something only I could see... because of my astonishing ability to see such things. Souls were rising... from the earth far below... souls of the dead of people who had perished from... famine, from war, from the plague... and they floated up like skydivers in reverse. limbs all akimbo, wheeling and spinning. And the souls of these departed joined hands... clasped ankles and formed a web, a great net of souls. And the souls were three atom oxygen molecules of the stuff of ozone... and the outer rim absorbed them and was repaired.

Nothing's lost forever. In this world, there is a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we've left behind and... dreaming ahead. At least I think that's so

That's it.


Did you like that?

Hmm, what I just read.

Did you hate it?

[Alice mumbles incoherently]

[Alice continues mumbling]


What was it about?



Yeah mom.

It was about love.

You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.


A walking study In demonology

Oh, look at my face
My name is might have been
My name is never was
My name's forgotten


How scandinavian of me

seneler sürer her günüm
yalnız gitmekten yorgunum

you couldn't read my mind

"Demek ki insanlar birbirine ancak muayyen bir hadde kadar yaklaşabiliyorlar ve ondan sonra, daha fazla sokulmak için atılan her adım daha çok uzaklaştırıyor. Seninle aramızdaki yakınlaşmanın bir hududu, bir sonu olmamasını ne kadar isterdim. Beni asıl, bu ümidin boşa çıkması üzüyor…Bundan sonra kendimizi aldatmaya lüzum yok… Artık eskisi gibi apaçık konuşamayız… Bunları ne diye, neyin uğruna feda ettik? Hiç!.. Mevcut olmayan bir şeye malik olalım derken mevcut olanları kaybettik… Her şey bitti mi? Zannetmem. İkimizin de çocuk olmadığımızı biliyorum. Yalnız bir müddet dinlenmek ve birbirimizden uzak kalmak lazım. Ta birbirimizi tekrar görmek ihtiyacını şiddetle duyana kadar…"


acı içinde hancı, kalbimde buruk acı

ah edip başını duvarla vur
kahrol bir köşede boş hayaller kur
kalpsizlerin sonu hep böyle olur
seni tanrı(n) bile af etmeyecek


I've been up all winter for someone like you

wo sind vögel und baeume,
blumen in tausend farben?
wie wir geschnappt hatten
von den haaren den frühling!


zaman asla affetmez ve sana bundan bahsetmez

the history of touches
every single archive
compressed into a second