Monday, October 7

"I ought to stop it, she thought.
You end up nowhere, that way.
It would all be simpler if they hadn't hammered into you this business of ending up somewhere, if they had taught you, rather to be happy standing still. All that nonsense about your road. Finding your road. Taking your own road. Maybe we were made to live in a plaza, or a park, instead, to stay there, as our life passes, or maybe we are a crossroads, and the world needs us to stand still, it would be a disaster if, at some point, we were to go off on our road, what road?, others are roads, I am a plaza, I lead nowhere, I am a place."
 - Alessandro Baricco
exhaled spirals

  • ". . . as I have said often enough, I write for myself in multiplicate,
    a not unfamiliar phenomenon on the horizon of shimmering deserts."
    - Vladimir Nabokov