Anna Politkovskaya, RIP Our criminal time has materialized itself in a vast hitman’s hand that slaps us and slaps us and slaps us. And we – we are still asleep. We’ll die asleep. This news simply makes me sick. From Mandelstam’s Tristia The asphodel’s transparent grey spring is a long way off. Sand is rustling, really the waves are breaking white. But here, like Persephone, my soul enters the sphere of no-weight and there are no beautiful tanned arms in the kingdom of the dead. Why trust a boat with a funeral urn’s weight, and why make holidays of black roses over amethyst water? My soul pulls there, past Meganom’s misty cape, where the black sail will come from, after the funeral! Quick black clouds run by unlit, and under this windy moon flocks of black roses go flying. And, behind the cypress-stern the bird of death and mourning-tears drags itself, a huge flag of memory. And the fan of buried years opens, rustling, toward the amulet, where once, with a dark shuddering it buried itse
“I’m so bored. I hate my life.” - Britney Spears
Das Langweilige ist interessant geworden, weil das Interessante angefangen hat langweilig zu werden. – Thomas Mann
"Never for money/always for love" - The Talking Heads