The Musée d'Orsay, that's where we should meet. I went in there one day and had a look at our civilisation's treasures, yet couldn't fathom exactly what I was looking for; it was as if my own humanity could not connect with culture or circumstance. I raised a hand, grabbed a pencil and sketched and wrote in my notebook, alternating my attention between treasure and my own interpretation of life on a page. The realisation that my inner world would never fully overlap with the great hands and minds of the past and present frightens me, but I refuse to let this completely flatten my existence into an absurdity devout of lightness and colour.
The world is too small for the mind, the world is too big for the hands.
Age and lack of haste provides reassurance.
We can see into her soul when she doesn't realise she is being looked it.
Slenderness is overstated.
The stillness of the night, I sometimes miss thee: the endless possibilities, the imagination, the timelessness, the pure and beautiful silence.
Simple melodies, organic soybean instruments, soulful sultry voices, thoughtful lyrics.
I'm not sure what it's like not to be conscious. I hope one day not to fear this, but I don't suppose I will ever understand it.
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