love is the blackest of all plagues, and the only pleasure would be to die of it. but it almost always passes. […] if everything is imperfect in this imperfect world, love is the most perfect in its perfect imperfection.
- 🅱️ingmar 🅱️ercman, 1957 (probably)
a crowd of onlookers become admirers as his child is lifted, backing down between them he achieves transcendence- historical, divine, artistic. for a moment, space’s sculptor is on par with the vastness and eternity of the sky.
the most tragic thing was not the child abuse or the child abandonment but the way bro fell in love with a girl and then that girl BECAME his sister 😭😭😭
the dizzying mesmerism of desire, blink once and corporeal passion walks down the street under a purple sky, spotlighted within a sea of hats. try to hold on to it: claw into it, brush it with your phantom touch, become one with it, let yourself into it, let it sink into you. impressions of its everpresence in an apartment with a view of matte paintings, at the seaside, in shared rooms with split mattresses, by the bonfire when the craving…
