The day you found out your father was actually a nun 
The day it rained vinegar 
The day you saw someone prettier than you and you KNEW it 

Yes, that day.
Every day.

The obsession with personal storytelling reflects not a drive to authenticity of experience, but an inability to conceive of life outside the boundaries of media and entertainment products. It’s the “authentically human” impulse of imagining yourself on TV, and no more.

Is it art? Is he art? Is she art? Are they art? Are you art? Art thou art? Are we art? Am I art?

This life, or all I will commit to of it, is honey, in a hive of connecting chambers of infinite perfection, in which each chamber contains a hive of connecting chambers of infinite perfection.

      15) Since no form is intrinsically superior to another, the artist may use any form, from an expression of words (written or spoken) to physical reality, equally. 
      16) If words are used, and they proceed from ideas about art, then they are art and not literature, numbers are not mathematics.

– Sol Lewitt 

All thought depends on death 
All language depends on death 
All behavior depends on death 
Death, death, death, death

I am sprawled out in the rain cutting myself. I am setting my alarm for 4:15 AM and it feels like signing my own death warrant. I am in bed. I am canceling my Facebook status post. I am canceling my Facebook account. I am joking. I am not joking. I am mostly joking, at least about the not joking part. Or the other parts. I am sprawled out in the rain.

Go thou into thy closet; shut thy door;
And pray to Him in secret: He will hear.
But think not thou, by one wild bound, to clear
The numberless ascensions, more and more,
Of starry stairs that must be climbed, before
Thou comest to the Father’s likeness near,
And bendest down to kiss the feet so dear
That, step by step, their mounting flights passed o’er.
Be thou content if on thy weary need
There falls a sense of showers and of the spring;
A hope that makes it possible to fling
Sickness aside, and go and do the deed;
For highest aspiration will not lead
Unto the calm beyond all questioning.

George MacDonald

All things are impermanent, and their thingness itself is an illusion, yet still each thing has an infinite nature within it, in which we participate when we let ourselves be compelled to access it.

At the foot of this mountain he built a temple to the Lycaean god, whom the Greeks call Pan, and the Romans Lupercus, the naked statue of the deity being covered with a goat-skin, in which dress the priests now run up and down during the Lupercalia at Rome.