Those with a sensitivity to light will, as autumn changes to winter, learn to see that the selves they inhabited in youth, and three years ago, and last month, and yesterday, are no longer their own; that they have left behind them an infinite train of lost, solitary ghosts; that every perception is a memory, every moment a death, every footstep a grave. The child is father to the man. From dust, dust.
from Sequelae, by Brian Booker
Lou Reed is a completely depraved pervert and pathetic death dwarf and everything else you want to think he is. On top of that he’s a liar, a wasted talent, an artist continually in flux, and a huckster selling pounds of his own flesh.
Lou Reed is my own hero principally because he stands for all the most fucked up things that I could ever possibly conceive of. Which probably only shows the limits of my imagination.
Henry Gray can tell you the depth and breadth and height of the heart, but not how many hours until someone comes home to you. The rhythmical action of the heart, he wrote, is muscular in origin — that is to say, the heart moves itself and nerves have no say in it. Snow on your skin can be felt. A choke chain, pricks of poison, the dimensions of the living room when empty can be felt. All of it unnecessary to the movement of your heart. During times of rest, the whole heart is relaxed. If given the chance. If the bones of the hand do not articulate precisely as asked. If it ever becomes safe to stop hiding the knives. During life, there is no vacant space. Something for every cage, the carve of ribs, a lovely fist enclosing. This is the architecture of your heart.
My name is Uomasha and I dream of space, and I dream of clouds.