Interesting; but was there ever really anything at all to understand? We live, we die; what else is there, but death? Between all of us, there's nothing but ourselves, as far as we're concerned. There is nothing in this world, but that for which me make of it; which, obviously, no one has ever tried to do anything else, but that.
Butterflies. Bumblebees. The sound of water-rain, sea. The tenderness of a caress. Hold fast to every ounce of beauty, life and love. That too is revolution.
Interesting; but was there ever really anything at all to understand? We live, we die; what else is there, but death? Between all of us, there's nothing but ourselves, as far as we're concerned. There is nothing in this world, but that for which me make of it; which, obviously, no one has ever tried to do anything else, but that.
I spent a long part of my life trying to understand, but that's like trying to be an optimist in a prison cell.
We have poetry.
... dawn and dusk, the smell of sea salt, mud between our toes, beer...
Butterflies. Bumblebees. The sound of water-rain, sea. The tenderness of a caress. Hold fast to every ounce of beauty, life and love. That too is revolution.
Coconut cream in soup, rain on my face, topless masseurs...