The walls are endlessly bare. Nothing hangs on them, nothing defines them. They are without texture. Even to the keenest eye or most sentient fingertip they remain unreadable. You will never find a mark there. No trace survives. The walls oblierate everything. They are permanetly absolved of all record. Oblique, forever obsure and unwritten. Behold the perfect pantheon of absence.
This is what happens when you hurry through a maze: the faster you go, the worse you are entangled.
Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. It is not about feeling good. It is about endurance. Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer.
Error who comes from his cave with featherless ankles to feast on the mighty dead.
House of Leaves; Mark Z. Danielewski (via ice-nine
Perhaps when I’m finished I’ll remember what I’d hoped to accomplish in the first place.
House Of Leaves (Page 54); Mark Z. Danielewski (via ice-nine
Well that, of course, was Zampano’s greatest ironic gesture; love of love written by the broken-hearted; love of life written by the dead.
Look to the sky, look to yourself and remember: we are only God’s echoes and God is Narcissus.
She said memories mean all, but they are all dead.