Best football on Android.

Lord, spare me the questions, allow me to live and enjoy the moments rather than search for meaning in them. Any learning brings ulcerative pain if the goal itself is important, but not the road to it. So what do I strive for, is it disappointment? Everything is hidden in the journey itself. Sometimes under rocks by the roadside, sometimes even explicitly, instead of the rocks themselves. Knowledge - the eternal fog of hope. Lord, let heart be my guide.

Screenshots: Solaris (1972)

I wanted to write somewhere in social network or messenger, but then I remembered that I am absolutely alien to communication and any feedback. With books, perhaps, the case will be different, more multifaceted, but as for cinematography, two favorite films I can confidently recommend and name:

• Det Sjunde Inseglet (1957);
• Solaris (1972).

Perhaps someone hasn’t watched it yet and will discover some new facets. I would like to believe so.

Your pocket introvert and sociopath.

«The sun gives grace, but only as a raised torch. Airplanes plow through the sky, rockets leap like frogs, peace is no longer a value. Madness describes circles mentally, like lilies on a pond. Artists paint by dripping red, green and blue. Poets rhyme loneliness, musicians are hungry as always, novelists can’t find a point. But the pelican and the seagull dive deep and surface, shaking half-dead and radioactive fish in their beaks. The sky is red-orange, flowers are blooming, but they are covered with a layer of rocket dust and mushrooms, poisonous mushrooms… And in a millions rooms lie lovers, lost and sick as the world. We cannot wake up, doomed to die forever in our sleep.»

fear is not a feeling, fear is a duty to ignorance. perhaps this blackness of the abyss, which lives with everyone, would be colored with other colors, if only there were an opportunity to look beyond it.

“As we live we all get caught and torn by various traps. Writing can trap you. Some writers tend to write what has pleased their readers in the past. They hear accolades and believe them. There’s only one final judge of writing, and that is the Writer. When he is swayed by the critics, the editors, the publishers, the readers; then he is finished. And, of course, when he is swayed with his fame and his fortune, you can float him down the river with the turds.”

“The racetrack crowd is the world brought down to size, life grinding against death and losing. Nobody wins finally, we are just seeking a reprieve, a moment out of the glare.”

Chinaski: You married, Manny? Manny: No way, no. Chinaski: Women? Manny: Sometimes. It never lasts. Chinaski: What’s the problem? Manny: A woman is like a fulltime job. You have to choose your profession. Chinaski: Yeah, I suppose there is an emotional drain. Manny: Physical too. They want to fuck night and day. Chinaski: Well, get one you like to fuck. Manny: Yeah, but if you drink or gamble they think it’s a put down of their love. Chinaski: Well, get one who likes to drink, gamble and fuck. Manny: Who wants a woman like that?

“A poem is a city filled with streets and sewers. Filled with saints, heros, beggars, madmen. Filled with banality and booze. Filled with rain and thunder and periods of drought. A poem is a city of war. It’s a barbershop filled with cynical drunks. A poem is a city. A poem is a nation. A poem is the world.”

“If you are going to try, go all the way. Otherwise don’t even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives, jobs. And Maybe your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery, isolation. Isolation is the gift. All others are a test of your endurance. Of how much you really want to do it. And you’ll do it, despite rejection in the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods. And the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.”

12.12.23

human years are a rickety bridge between cognition and indifference. the former is tightly bound to the latter, while the latter jumps into the abyss.

07.10.23

the bodyless whisper of unkilled morality whispers in the ear and jokes about invented law as a mortal body. what needs to be burdened is already half made up of ashes. and hence all living things endowed with reason are not wholly living.

05.10.23

to be read - to be killed a second time after your own hands.

Have you grown up asking yourself the question: “Am I crazy or is this whole world crazy?” Hemingway said there’s no way out of this world, and he was damn right. You just have to wait and cling to the things that can turn you from bones and meat into a spiritual being. I could say it’s not about people, but I believe in my children who are going to live here, which means I believe in all of humanity.

Loneliness

Sleepless nights. Re-watched all the movies starring the beloved John Candy, had a lot of fun. Aesthetically I’m stuck in the deep past and I don’t feel like looking for a way out of it. No time. It’s no different. There are only sensations. Feelings of something light left behind, slipping sand through my fingers. I try to find this part of my youth in the mood, in the nostalgia of looking at the world from a different, interested angle.

Neon cyberpunk 80s

perishability is the absolute I rejoice carefully the understanding of finitude lasts forever love is all that holds me is the desire for oblivion I am drowning in the little things on which I rely I am drowning in the little things otherwise everything that is and that can be swallowed will swallow me like a whale hundreds of fish one of which I am alone small fish swimmingfor everyone in an insane faith to escape this maw-abyss the size of the world and the size of a hole in the soul in each of us in this everyday struggle for life so loving the little that God sends us but what kind of soul have you put into all this