Every Hundred Feet The World

That's A Pretty Story,' Said Afanasievna As She Let Go Of Ansky's Genitals. 'a Pity I'm Too Old And Have Seen To Much To Believe It.' It Has Nothing To Do With Belief,' Said Ansky, 'it Has To Do With Understanding, And Then Changing.

Literature + Illness = Illness

Of All The Islands He'd Visited, Two Stood Out. The Island Of The Past, He Said, Where The Only Time Was Past Time And The Inhabitants Were Bored And More Or Less Happy, But Where The Weight Of Illusion Was So Great That The Island Sank A Little Deeper Into The River Every Day. And The Island Of The Future, Where The Only Time Was The Future, And The Inhabitants Were Planners And Strivers, Such Strivers, Said Ulises, That They Were Likely To End Up Devouring One Another.

Drink Up, Boys, Drink Up And Don’t Worry, If We Finish This Bottle We’ll Go Down And Buy Another One. Of Course, It Won’t Be The Same As The One We’ve Got Now, But It’ll Still Be Better Than Nothing. Ah, What A Shame They Don’t Make Los Suicidas Mezcal Anymore, What A Shame That Time Pases, Don’t You Think? What A Shame That We Die, And Get Old, And Everything Good Goes Galloping Away From Us.

But Every Single Damn Thing Matters! Only We Don't Realize. We Just Tell Ourselves That Art Runs On One Track And Life, Our Lives, On Another, And We Don't Realize That's A Lie.