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“You gotta get them right off their momma’s tit and train them like you would a bird dog—that’s the only way you’re gonna get a good one.”
I dream but to wander
Round and about the orb
Drink deep, drink up all poisons
Devour, destroy all demons
That plague the lands and people
Pour from my mouth and fingers
Healing balms, soma, ambrosia and elixers
I am coming to love charcoal more and more. I’m adapting to it quite naturally, despite my initial distaste for it upon mistaking it for graphite. It’s such a bold medium. My hands are black. I love it. I want to do larger pieces in charcoal soon.
n. the inexplicable urge to push people away, even close friends who you really like—as if all your social tastebuds suddenly went numb, leaving you unable to distinguish cheap politeness from the taste of genuine affection, unable to recognize its subtle and ambiguous flavors, its long and delicate maturation, or the simple fact that each tasting is double-blind.
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The principle of compassion is that which converts disillusionment into a participatory companionship. This is the basic love, the charity, that turns a critic into a living human being who has something to give to - as well as to demand of - the world.
tumblrbot asked: ROBOTS OR DINOSAURS?
Would the dinosaurs have access to an EMP pulse emitter or, conversely, would the robots be accompanied by Jeff Goldblum?
Either, way, I’d have to say… Robots would get the better of dinosaurs.
You rose like a moon, bringing me new tides and as such I rise, I swell, I reach up and cannot touch you. Your face, as the moon, shows me just one side. Your words, well chosen, have much to imply. My three eyes, my analytical and neurotic mind, my fragile and naive heart—can they ever know you?
What are your intentions, expectations, motivations? What may I expect from you of which I have already come to desire? What would I want that I’m not willing and eager to give? Where do we stand? Must I still these waters and become a mirror to reflect the cosmic seas? Should I dive to the depths where another mirror exists? The one that reflects not the self but all others? Where do my answers lie? In the depths or the heavens? What fear and anxiety is it that keeps me from just asking you?
The little boy in my daydreams with a black crown and stars in his hands. He’s the same boy in what I thought was a different story altogether.
Considering that my creative process is hardly linear, I’m not sure what to expect from this short story I am compelled to write and illustrate… In any case, there is some activity going on. The gears are grinding and whirring. Creativity is happening…
*Continues staring past the screen in trance-like contemplation*
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