Mente Getu
α³αα«α΅ ααα Volume 5 αα΅α«α½α α¨α₯αα± α¨ααα΅α²α«α α°α΄α΅ α΅α΅α£α αα«αα½ α₯ααα± αα α²α³α α¨α₯ααα΅ α¨α¦ααα΅ α αα΅α αααα½ α½ααα αα£α΅ ααα΅ α΄α΅ α³αα£α α₯ααΉα α₯α
α αα ααα½αα αα΅αα α₯ααα£ αα°α αα³ αα α΅α¨α³ααα
αα (Γ2) α α α«αα¨α α¨α¨α³αΈα α¨αα
α α°α α ααα (Γ2) α α«α°α£α£α© ααα
α α₯α αα³ αα£α α₯ααα³αα α ααα΅ α₯αααα΅ α α«αα«αα α°αα α₯αααααβ¦
Seriously though, we are and have been a diseased nation and it's about time we admitted it.
π€1
Like all strong people,-Interview With the Vampire, Anne Rice
she suffered always a measure of loneliness; she was a marginal outsider, a secret infidel of a certain sort.
β€1
What does it mean to die when you can live until the end of the world? And what is βthe end of the worldβ except a phrase, because who knows even what is the world itself? I had now lived in two centuries, seen the illusions of one shattered by the other, been eternally young and eternally ancient, possessing no illusions, living moment to moment in a way that made me picture a silver clock ticking in a void: the painted face, the delicately carved hands looked upon by no one, looking out at no one, illuminated by a light which was not a light, like the light by which God made the world before He had made light. Ticking, ticking, ticking, the precision of the clock, in a room as vast as the universe.-Anne Rice
β€3
This is what I have to avoid, I must not put in strangeness where there is none.
-Nausea, Jean-Paul Sartre
They rose up like men. We saw them. Like men they stood.
We shouldnβt have been anywhere near that place. Like most farmland outside Lotus, Georgia, this one here had plenty of scary warning signs.
The threats hung from wire mesh fences with wooden stakes every fifty or so feet. But when we saw a crawl space that some animal had dugβa coyote maybe, or a coon dogβwe couldnβt resist. Just kids we were. The grass was shoulder high for her and waist high for me so, looking out for snakes, we crawled through it on our bellies. The reward was worth the harm grass juice and clouds of gnats did to our eyes, because there right in front of us, about fifty yards off, they stood like men. Their raised hooves crashing and striking, their manes tossing back from wild white eyes. They bit each other like dogs but when they stood, reared up on their hind legs, their forelegs around the withers of the other, we held our breath in wonder. One was rust-colored, the other deep black, both sunny with sweat. The neighs were not as frightening as the silence following a kick of hind legs into the lifted lips of the opponent. Nearby, colts and mares, indifferent, nibbled grass or looked away. Then it stopped. The rust-colored one dropped his head and pawed the ground while the winner loped off in an arc, nudging the mares before him.
As we elbowed back through the grass looking for the dug-out place, avoiding the line of parked trucks beyond, we lost our way. Although it took forever to re-sight the fence, neither of us panicked until we heard voices, urgent but low. I grabbed her arm and put a finger to my lips. Never lifting our heads, just peeping through the grass, we saw them pull a body from a
wheelbarrow and throw it into a hole already waiting. One foot stuck up over the edge and quivered, as though it could get out, as though with a little effort it could break through the dirt being shoveled in. We could not see the faces of the men doing the burying, only their trousers; but we sawthe edge of a spade drive the jerking foot down to join the rest of itself.
When she saw that black foot with its creamy pink and mud-streaked sole being whacked into the grave, her whole body began to shake. I hugged her shoulders tight and tried to pull her trembling into my own bones because, as a brother four years older, I thought I could handle it. The men were long gone and the moon was a cantaloupe by the time we felt safe enough to disturb even one blade of grass and move on our stomachs, searching for the scooped-out part under the fence. When we got home we expected to be whipped or at least scolded for staying out so late, but the grown-ups did
not notice us. Some disturbance had their attention.
Since youβre set on telling my story, whatever you think and whatever you write down, know this: I really forgot about the burial. I only remembered
the horses. They were so beautiful. So brutal. And they stood like men.
-Home, Toni Morrison
We shouldnβt have been anywhere near that place. Like most farmland outside Lotus, Georgia, this one here had plenty of scary warning signs.
The threats hung from wire mesh fences with wooden stakes every fifty or so feet. But when we saw a crawl space that some animal had dugβa coyote maybe, or a coon dogβwe couldnβt resist. Just kids we were. The grass was shoulder high for her and waist high for me so, looking out for snakes, we crawled through it on our bellies. The reward was worth the harm grass juice and clouds of gnats did to our eyes, because there right in front of us, about fifty yards off, they stood like men. Their raised hooves crashing and striking, their manes tossing back from wild white eyes. They bit each other like dogs but when they stood, reared up on their hind legs, their forelegs around the withers of the other, we held our breath in wonder. One was rust-colored, the other deep black, both sunny with sweat. The neighs were not as frightening as the silence following a kick of hind legs into the lifted lips of the opponent. Nearby, colts and mares, indifferent, nibbled grass or looked away. Then it stopped. The rust-colored one dropped his head and pawed the ground while the winner loped off in an arc, nudging the mares before him.
As we elbowed back through the grass looking for the dug-out place, avoiding the line of parked trucks beyond, we lost our way. Although it took forever to re-sight the fence, neither of us panicked until we heard voices, urgent but low. I grabbed her arm and put a finger to my lips. Never lifting our heads, just peeping through the grass, we saw them pull a body from a
wheelbarrow and throw it into a hole already waiting. One foot stuck up over the edge and quivered, as though it could get out, as though with a little effort it could break through the dirt being shoveled in. We could not see the faces of the men doing the burying, only their trousers; but we sawthe edge of a spade drive the jerking foot down to join the rest of itself.
When she saw that black foot with its creamy pink and mud-streaked sole being whacked into the grave, her whole body began to shake. I hugged her shoulders tight and tried to pull her trembling into my own bones because, as a brother four years older, I thought I could handle it. The men were long gone and the moon was a cantaloupe by the time we felt safe enough to disturb even one blade of grass and move on our stomachs, searching for the scooped-out part under the fence. When we got home we expected to be whipped or at least scolded for staying out so late, but the grown-ups did
not notice us. Some disturbance had their attention.
Since youβre set on telling my story, whatever you think and whatever you write down, know this: I really forgot about the burial. I only remembered
the horses. They were so beautiful. So brutal. And they stood like men.
-Home, Toni Morrison
β€1
I saw a shooting star a few minutes ago. A bright and gigantic one. No one else around me saw it, so I could be hallucinating. It only lasted a fraction of a second but it's the most beautiful thing! A beautiful ball of fire.
β€4
"I have such a desire to sleep and am so much behind in my sleep. A good night, one good
night and all this nonsense will be swept away."
-Nausea, Jean Paul Sartre
night and all this nonsense will be swept away."
-Nausea, Jean Paul Sartre
β€6