mind. breathe. meditate.

almost burn the house down*sunday

jas. i don t even know what to say yet

William Shakespeare Sonnet

XXIV
Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath steel'd,
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is best painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictur'd lies,
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

notes

There was an evening i slept i had a dream and made a song the song slipped through my hands like sand more slithered in and around the shrubs and disappeared under the cement. I wished i had sprung on that moment and raised my dictaphone now i know again how that works and will grow. People staring at me everywhere i go it will become reckless and move somewhere between the center of things and somewhere underneath. Into withdrawn, can not be drowned. It moves and lingers Into an empty space. It surfaces untouched Loved and Singular.

in remembrance of those who didn t make it to the rooms, and in honor of those for whom the chair still waits

wHere

where are the words where are the words where are the words where are the words where are the words where art thou words where are the words where are the words where are the words where are the words where are the swords where are the words where are the words where are the words where where where are the words where are the words where are the words where are the words where are the words where are the words words words words words words words words

friday~happy bday dan flavin*+