Oh, Fredrik, what a day it's been!

Everybody has a heart, except some people.

[ink-piss]

“Writing, like dating, is just as much about what you refuse to see as what you observe.” -Lena Dunham, “Famesick”

[ink-piss]

“To make art at all is to commit the sin of pride.” - Benjamin Hale, “Cave Mountain”

[ink-piss]

"All I could do was smile at him, a smile closed, closed to try and show sympathy, what could I say, what can you say to someone who thinks they have failed, only they know the standard by which they judge themselves, the impossible standard that they can never meet, self-imposed so that they never meet it, so they always consider themselves to have failed, what can you say, all I could say was, I know what you mean." -Charlie Porter, Nova Scotia House

[nevver]

Color palette, David Fullarton

[robertxdarling]

David Wojnarowicz with chair by Peter Hujar

[inneroptics]

Sergio Larraín. Chelsea Arts Ball, 1958-59

[twixnmix]

Keith Haring photographed by Tseng Kwong Chi at the Berlin Wall on October 23, 1986.

[ink-piss]

To live is to exist within time. To remember is to negate time.

Bliss Montage by Ling Ma

[ink-piss]

I first met the Husband on LoweredExpectations.com. He was the first guy I met after creating a profile. Under Favorite Foods I put: tacos. Under Favorite Music I put: Cat Power. I put down all the taste qualifiers that were supposed to bridge the gap between myself and someone else. Under What I'm Looking For I put: I want to know someone for longer than a few years. I want to know what that feels like.

Bliss Montage by Ling Ma

[tobydammit68]

Silence = Death (1990) Dir. Rosa von Praunheim

[kiki-de-la-petite-flaque-deacti]

Scenes from a Marriage, Ingmar Bergman, 1974

[nevver]

Check items desired

[inneroptics]

Anthony Barboza, “NYC Self-Portrait,” 1970-79.

[nevver]

La Paranoia (because)

[nevver]

Nothing every after, Norbert Schwontkowski

[ink-piss]

Some patterns can only be observed at a great distance, it's true, but in order to view life in this way something else must be sacrificed, for when we look with hindsight, from the final outcome back, we see events inflected with a meaning that the one who lived them never grasped. I don't believe there is a single person who's not troubled sometimes in the course of their days by a sense of occlusion or tenuousness, a sense that their actions occur within such a great expanse of darkness on either side that they might prove at the last incoherent and devoid of sense. 'Yes, I was thinking,' [Virginia] Woolf wrote in her diary at around the same time that the Ouse [River] was bombed; 'we live without a future. That's what's queer, with our noses pressed to a closed door.' She was speaking of the war, but I think that what she said is true of every day, whether bombs rain down or not, for the future is by its nature contingent and to read every event in terms of what is yet to occur disjoints the moment in which life is lived, divesting it of that uncertain, glancing quality that is the hallmark of the present.

“To the River” by Olivia Laing

[ink-piss]

There is no intimacy like the intimacy of breathing life into something together, mingling breath. There's nothing like sharing creation. For the months in which we are assembled, the only people we feel connected to are the ones who joined us inside this world. There might be a legal contract that says we have all agreed to play pretend for eight or ten weeks, after which this will stop. But we are human and we forget how time works – our entire lives are possible only because we have taught ourselves this trick of lying about time. If we thought about the truth – that every morning we wake up is a morning bringing us closer to death – we wouldn't get out of bed. So we live in this room together with a headlong intensity that approximates "forever," because these are the moments that make us want to live at all. And so, somewhere between how much we need each other and how singularly we share a world that no one else shares, we forget that we will not always share this one impenetrable world. And because we forget, we love.

We Play Ourselves by Jen Silverman