The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
All of old. Nothing else ever. Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
Let me go to hell, that's all I ask, and go on cursing them there, and them look down and hear me, that might take some of the shine off their bliss.
To contrive a little kingdom, in the midst of the universal muck, then shit on it, ah that was me all over.
I have always been amazed at my contemporaries’ lack of finesse, I whose soul writhed from morning to night, in the mere quest of itself.
Pozzo: (suddenly furious). Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time! It's abominable! When! When! One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we'll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you? (Calmer.) They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.
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5 comments:
local modeling gigs are a metaphor. nevermind.
working in an office is like being dead except people are still demanding things from you.
I agree, but substitute everything for work.
I'd be all, "Bitch, get yo ass off tha paint!" It wasn't painted at Earl Scheib's for christ sakes. There's gold flake in that shit. Lambo doors bitches!
AH fuck it. I own a pickup truck. Wipe your asses on my F-150, hoochies.
Does ass mix poorly with paint?
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