samantha yang.
Monday, August 25

But the letter

his wife left for him when she vanished five days after the earthquake was different: I am never coming back…

… The next day, he tried calling his wife’s parents in Yamagata. His mother-in-law answered the phone and told him that his wife didn’t want to talk to him. She sounded somewhat apologetic. She also told him that they would be sending him the necessary forms soon and that he should put his seal on them and send them back right away.
Komura answered that he might not be able to send them “right away.” This was an important matter, and he wanted time to think it over.
"You can think it over all you want, but I know it won’t change anything," his mother-in-law said.
She was probably right, Komura told himself. No matter how much he thought or waited, things would never be the same. He was sure of that.

Tags: murakami
Saturday, July 19


1 note




2 notes
Thursday, July 17

"Except for me.

There sprang into Bean’s mind a favorite scripture of Sister Carlotta’s. Maybe it meant so much to her because she had no children. She told Bean the story of Absalom’s rebellion against his own father, King David. In the course of a battle, Absalom was killed. When they brought the news to David, it meant victory, it meant that no more of his soldiers would die. His throne was safe. His life was safe. But all he could think about was his son, his beloved son, his dead boy.

Bean ducked his head, so his voice would be heard only by the men under his command. And then, for just long enough to speak, he pressed the override that put his voice into the ears of all the men of that distant fleet. Bean had no idea how his voice would sound to them; would they hear his childish voice, or were the sounds distorted, so they would hear him as an adult, or perhaps as some metallic, machinelike voice? No matter. In some form the men of that distant fleet would hear his voice, transmitted faster than light, God knows how.

"O my son Absalom," Bean said softly, knowing for the first time the kind of anguish that could tear such words from a man’s mouth. "My son, my son Absalom. Would God I could die for thee, O Absalom, my son. My sons!""

Tags: Orson Scott Card
1 note
Sunday, June 15

"Why do we

read fiction, anyway? Not to be impressed by somebody’s dazzling language-or at least I hope that’s not our reason. I think that most of us, anyway, read these stories that we know are not “true” because we’re hungry for another kind of truth: The mythic truth about human nature in general, the particular truth about those life-communities that define our own identity, and the most specific truth of all: our own self-story. “

Tags: Orson Scott Card
2 notes
Tuesday, May 6

this summer

bout to be long as hell.

First time it’s been something
I just want to get over with.

be still, my heart!
try not to be anxious and
don’t be a drama queen.

1 note
Saturday, April 12

Friday, March 14

7:26 AM

I can feel death’s fingers at my throat

these eyelids are not yet heavy,
blood’s rhythm has not yet slowed,
oxygen’s flow has not yet frozen,

but I can feel it lurking
hm hm hm

waiting for my weakness
waiting for the tears
the begging, the desperation

BUT NAY it shan’t break me
I will trample it with the valiant steed of
a nap later in the day perhaps

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Thursday, February 20

I’m sorry but

I find myself thinking of you
a lot.

Do I need to? No.
But can I help it? No.

Bah. Humbug.

Friday, February 7

first time messing around with samples
frank sinatra clips la dee daaah

1 note
Monday, December 30

Let us now have a look at this mouse in action.

Suppose, for example, that it, too, is offended (and it is almost always offended), and it, too, wishes to take revenge. For it may have stored up even more spite than l’homme de la nature et de la verite. The nasty, base little desire to pay the offender back with the same even may scratch still more nastily in it than in l’homme de la nature et de la verite, because l’homme de la nature et de la verite, with his innate stupidity, regards his revenge quite simply as justice;whereas the mouse, as a result of its heightened consciousness, denies it any justice. Things finally come down to the business itself, to the act of revenge itself. The wretched mouse, in addition to the one original nastiness, has already managed to fence itself about with so many other nastinesses in the form of questions and doubts; it has padded out the one question with so many unresolved questions that, willy-nilly, some fatal slops have accumulated around it, some stinking filth consisting of its dubieties, anxieties, and, finally, of the spit raining on it from the ingenious figures who stand solemnly around it like judges and dictators, guffawing at it from all their healthy gullets. Of course, nothing remains for it but to wave the whole thing aside with its little paw, and, with a smile of feigned contempt, in which it does not believe itself, slip back shamefacedly into its crack. There, in its loathsome, stinking underground, our offended, beaten-down, and derided mouse at once immerses itself in cold venomous, and above all, everlasting spite. For forty years on end it will recall its offense to the last, most shameful details, each time adding even more shameful details of its own, spitefully taunting and chafing itself with its fantasies. It will be ashamed of its fantasies, but all the same it will recall everything, go over everything, heap all sorts of figments on itself, under the pretext that they, too, could have happened, and forgive nothing. It may even begin to take revenge, but somehow in snatches, with piddling things, from behind the stove, incognito, believing neither in its right to revenge itself  nor in the success of its vengeance, and knowing beforehand that it will suffer a hundred times more from all its attempts at revenge than will the object of its vengeance, who will perhaps not even scratch at the bite. On its deathbed it will recall everything, adding the interest accumulated over all that time, and… But it is precisely this cold, loathsome half-despair, half-belief, in this conscious burying oneself alive from grief for forty years in the underground, in this assiduously produced and yet somewhat dubious hopelessness of one’s position, in all this poison of  unsatisfied desires penetrating inward, in all this fever of hesitations, of decisions taken forever, and repentances coming again a moment later, that the very sap of that strange pleasure I was talking about consists. It is so subtle, sometimes so elusive of consciousness, that people who are even the slightest bit narrow-minded, or who simply have strong nerves, will not understand a single trace of it.

Tags: fyodor dostoevsky
Wednesday, December 4


what careless words do. They make people love you a little less.”

Tags: arundhati roy
2 notes
Monday, November 25

Thursday, November 21

early morning

(I don’t have)

oh to be shook awake and
immediately form coherent
thoughts, without batting
a single eye

(on the contrary, I’d
mumble anything that rose
to my lips, a beat or two
before the brain)

I don’t think I’d be capable
of telling lies before sunup
without you being able to tell.

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