Monothematica

Obedient, the heavy soul of sunlight leans to early evening.

A promising young scholar once observed: I could go on and on about the failings of Shakespeare... but I really shouldn't need to: the Bayesian priors are pretty damning.

The aspic hush of afternoon descends and so we sit reminding ourselves of one another as the evening splinters light into the surface of our eyes from which invisible snails leave trails of custard and honey in their travels to corners of smiles.

I have some bad news; you're gonna die soon1.

Held half-jutted from the corner of an old apartment block persisting through encirclement by one of many business zones that pock this Chinese metropole is a fossilized ammonite.

You told me not to feed them, but they come regardless, tracking their translucent feet across the frost.

I know exactly where I am.

Your Name (1994 - ) As if you could go on forever.

I don't know if this is true, but let's pretend it is: There are only two ways to create art.

A certain kind of putdown works by pointing out someone's behaviour is driven by causes, not reasons.

Taut as a drum, let the sea slip round us as it slips to circle continents, as it slips, obliquely, into a poem, as it slips on like a dress, and off like one too when it is done with you.

In the beginning was the worm, or more precisely, worms.

The blurb claims it "Reads like the script notes for American Psycho - The Holiday Abroad".

In front of me there is a cup.

The border of the sky is torn to lilac-gold.

You always-walking waves of men whose footsteps sound our stony deep, step lightly now above our heads or else you may disturb our sleep.

I kind of hate writing.

The grey sky hung like a flannelette sheet.

Loping like a ghost along the moon-slick pavement, the white dog is trotting on beside the gutter full of moon-beams and blossom and delicate orbs that are the images of skulls of mannequin all leering like corpses from the sex-shop-front.

Autodidacticism I think there's a spectrum from thinking with smaller vs larger chunks of other people's thoughts.

Doubloons, fat pennants loll and lay about on greeny fog, and each twig tilts their shield-shades, each rough-cut leaf, to interrupt the broad blue back above.

The cattail bending, hidden in the autumn wind.

In Northern England, house sparrows are called spugs or spuggies.

The tap tap tap tap of drips on my head.

Rain spoiled the fruit, they clot the nets – these oblivious, night-black plums – dropped off to bloom white mould, and shrink, and curdle like so much pelagic mass hauled up to dry in the drag-net off Nantucket or Here, between the trunks in cemetery rows

"The opposite of a correct statement is a false statement.

Such a contrast with the Genji.

Why do humans experience akrasia to a greater extent than animals do?

Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn ends with these lines; Beauty is truth, truth beauty,---that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

This frog in my hand is round as a pond.

Ink drips into ink.

Behind my house there is a well.