(damn shame)
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too delightful 

too delightful 

I miss you so much. I need you in my hot tub looking over at me through a cloud of cigarette smoke and steam, fogging up your glasses. Can you even see me? “If there wasn’t anybody around I’d be all over you right now.” I need you to read over all the weird shit I wrote up in my bed, half naked sweating like crazy because the a.c in the “new house” is broken and fuck, that was the only perk about this goddamn “new house.” I need you to talk to me about how it’s okay to feel miserable and sad, I need you to tell me “that’s just the artist in you, baby.” I need you to tell me not to make myself so sick with anxiety. I need you to tell me that my theory “only strangers can see the real me” isn’t true. Tell me you see the real me, please? Tell me I have a purpose, tell me I have a name. I had a name. I can’t remember it, fuck, I’m going to take another cold shower and hope by the time I get back to this sweaty stinking bed that I’ll have figured out the key to happiness. I need you to tell me that it’s not in a name, it’s not in a place. Not a ribbon to this typewriter, not a glass of red wine. Happiness. It’s in a solid thudding organ that I know is inside me, but I can only feel when I’m laying on your hairy chest. My heart echoing off your body back into my eardrum. I need you. I need you to remind me that I’m alive and you’re not.
 

I miss you so much. I need you in my hot tub looking over at me through a cloud of cigarette smoke and steam, fogging up your glasses. Can you even see me? “If there wasn’t anybody around I’d be all over you right now.” I need you to read over all the weird shit I wrote up in my bed, half naked sweating like crazy because the a.c in the “new house” is broken and fuck, that was the only perk about this goddamn “new house.” I need you to talk to me about how it’s okay to feel miserable and sad, I need you to tell me “that’s just the artist in you, baby.” I need you to tell me not to make myself so sick with anxiety. I need you to tell me that my theory “only strangers can see the real me” isn’t true. Tell me you see the real me, please? Tell me I have a purpose, tell me I have a name. I had a name. I can’t remember it, fuck, I’m going to take another cold shower and hope by the time I get back to this sweaty stinking bed that I’ll have figured out the key to happiness. I need you to tell me that it’s not in a name, it’s not in a place. Not a ribbon to this typewriter, not a glass of red wine. Happiness. It’s in a solid thudding organ that I know is inside me, but I can only feel when I’m laying on your hairy chest. My heart echoing off your body back into my eardrum. I need you. I need you to remind me that I’m alive and you’re not.

 

But in truth, the world is constantly shifting: shape and size, location in space. It’s got edges and chasms, too many to count. They open up, close, reappear somewhere else. Geologists may have mapped out the planet’s tectonic plates -hidden shelves of rock that grind, one against the other, forming mountains, creating continents - but thy can’t plot the fault lines that run through our heads, divide out hearts.
The map of the world is always changing; sometimes it happens overnight. All it takes is the blink of an eye, the squeeze of a trigger, a sudden gust of wind. Wake up and your life is perched on a precipice; fall asleep, it swallows you whole.

But in truth, the world is constantly shifting: shape and size, location in space. It’s got edges and chasms, too many to count. They open up, close, reappear somewhere else. Geologists may have mapped out the planet’s tectonic plates -hidden shelves of rock that grind, one against the other, forming mountains, creating continents - but thy can’t plot the fault lines that run through our heads, divide out hearts.

The map of the world is always changing; sometimes it happens overnight. All it takes is the blink of an eye, the squeeze of a trigger, a sudden gust of wind. Wake up and your life is perched on a precipice; fall asleep, it swallows you whole.

Observations of Saturn by others prior to Huygens. I is an observation by Galileo in 1610. II is one by Scheiner in 1614. III is one by Riccioli from 1641-1643. IV-VII represent suggestions by Hevelius based on his theories. VIII and IX are observations by Riccioli from 1648-1650. X is an observation by Divini from 1646-1648. XI is one by Fontana in 1636. XII is one by Gassendi in 1646. XIII is from observations by Fontana and others from 1644-1645.

Observations of Saturn by others prior to Huygens. I is an observation by Galileo in 1610. II is one by Scheiner in 1614. III is one by Riccioli from 1641-1643. IV-VII represent suggestions by Hevelius based on his theories. VIII and IX are observations by Riccioli from 1648-1650. X is an observation by Divini from 1646-1648. XI is one by Fontana in 1636. XII is one by Gassendi in 1646. XIII is from observations by Fontana and others from 1644-1645.

The secret to finding a happy ending is knowing where to stop.

The secret to finding a happy ending is knowing where to stop.

There are times when a feeling of expectancy comes to me, as if something is there, beneath the surface of my understanding, waiting for me to grasp it. It is the same tantalizing sensation when you almost remember a name, but don’t quite reach it. I can feel it when I think of human beings, of the hints of evolution suggested by the removal of wisdom teeth, the narrowing of the jaw no longer needed to chew such roughage as it was accustomed to; the gradual disappearance of hair from the human body; the adjustment of the human eye to fine print, the swift, colored motion of the twentieth century. The feeling comes, vague and nebulous, when I consider the prolonged adolescence of our species; the rites of birth, marriage and death; all the primitive, barbaric ceremonies streamlined to modern times. Almost, I think, the unreasoning, bestial purity was best. Oh, something is there, waiting for me. Perhaps someday the revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grotesque joke. And then I’ll laugh. And then I’ll know what life is.

There are times when a feeling of expectancy comes to me, as if something is there, beneath the surface of my understanding, waiting for me to grasp it. It is the same tantalizing sensation when you almost remember a name, but don’t quite reach it. I can feel it when I think of human beings, of the hints of evolution suggested by the removal of wisdom teeth, the narrowing of the jaw no longer needed to chew such roughage as it was accustomed to; the gradual disappearance of hair from the human body; the adjustment of the human eye to fine print, the swift, colored motion of the twentieth century. The feeling comes, vague and nebulous, when I consider the prolonged adolescence of our species; the rites of birth, marriage and death; all the primitive, barbaric ceremonies streamlined to modern times. Almost, I think, the unreasoning, bestial purity was best. Oh, something is there, waiting for me. Perhaps someday the revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grotesque joke. And then I’ll laugh. And then I’ll know what life is.

You know this, you must know this. We are lovely and full of desire, we die so many times and come back here, to cross paths. I didn’t fall off the roof, I was pushed. I want neither revenge nor relief. I crave no rescue. What I want, Lillian, is to be gigantic and perfectly lit, to be with you again, carnal in our reincarnation. The future will find us handsome taikonauts in a small ship spinning out of control, flawed by love and plunging realistically toward the heart of a hellish sun. In the future we will suffer together in outer space and eat crème brulee out of a silver tube. The novelty never wears off, Lil. It never does.

You know this, you must know this. We are lovely and full of desire, we die so many times and come back here, to cross paths. I didn’t fall off the roof, I was pushed. I want neither revenge nor relief. I crave no rescue. What I want, Lillian, is to be gigantic and perfectly lit, to be with you again, carnal in our reincarnation. The future will find us handsome taikonauts in a small ship spinning out of control, flawed by love and plunging realistically toward the heart of a hellish sun. In the future we will suffer together in outer space and eat crème brulee out of a silver tube. The novelty never wears off, Lil. It never does.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, ‘Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?’ Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.