I pretend I'm a writer when I'm not pretending I'm a rockstar. Both of these things may or may not take place in front of the bathroom mirror.
You probably have no idea what my posts are about, and that's the way I like it. True art fails to yield to analysis.
Self-indulgent biography, attempt at humor, pseudo-intellectual Nietzsche quote, etc. etc. etc.
Companion v. 3.0: A Picture of the Princess, Pristine in Posture and Pixellation
If roses had eyes, they’d know their own beauty. Deaf composers will never be lulled by their own creations, never know the symphony’s sweetness, but I can see she’s perfect from miles and miles away. My seasoned eyes cut through the over-sharpened features, the mechanical grain that old technology taints us with. They peel through the layers of fragmented information and her radiance is ever-present.
This resistance is due to this distance, and holding back never hurt more. I’m starved for the tension (though that goes unmentioned,) it’s shaking me straight to the core. I’m stricken, I’m smitten, and that’s all been written. She’s most likely heard it before, and yet she won’t surmise or detect with her eyes the untarnished beauty I’ve grown to adore.
