The third eye. You spend years doing everything you can to open it and then the damn thing opens and your friends laugh at you when you tell them that you can see their souls behind their eyes burning like rainbows.
Then the fourth eye opens and the fifth and the ones on the tips of his fingers and everything rainbow at the edges…
— Gaiman, Endless Nights
The radio is nothing but a conduit through which pre-fabricated din can flow into our homes. And this din goes far deeper, of course, than the eardrums. It penetrates the mind, filling it with a babble of distractions, blasts of corybantic or sentimental music, continually repeated doses of drama that bring no catharsis, but usually create a craving for daily or even hourly emotional enemas. — Aldous Huxley
I wonder if then you were going through what I’m going through now.
I really like you, see, enough that I almost pray you’ll be online, that I’ll see you in the halls or catch your eye during history.
I love talking to you.
You hold my heart in your hand – do you realize that?
And at this point you’re probably juggling…
I really wish that everything would turn out all right.
I’m afraid I’d be even more obsessed with you.
I think about you a lot, see – ‘s a good way to stop myself from ever being bored.
I wonder if you feel this same edge-of-pain vulnerability that is so beautiful…
But I can’t totally convince myself that you don’t.
Whose fault is it that we’ve fallen this far?
And I really, sheepishly, shamefully, stupidly, timidly, passionately
Listening to: The Weepies – Not Your Year