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One day, one page, one sketch of GREAT EXPECTATIONS, published daily at 8:40 AM.

Posts tagged Abel Magwitch

468You only say “I didn’t give up” after you actually give up. Are you in danger? Of course not, you had no choice but to offer yourself as a victim, and that’s all right. We all try to hold time still at some point or another, even though time doesn’t stand still.– Page read by ROBERTO CORTEZ.

467What’s the difference between sleeping with the clothes you wore through the day, and changing your clothes before falling asleep? We stubbornly refuse to deal with reality until reality surrenders to us and gives us what we think and believe belongs to us.– Page read by JAEGER SMITH.

465The absence of air in a room with no windows and piles of dirty and clean clothes mixed together, unfolded. Unpaired shoes are littering the floor, there is nothing left to do. Your starring role is to play someone who feels less alone than you. Sorry, your horoscope lied to you today. Page read by NORA BERMAN.

4628:40 AM: The Havisham Hour. Day/Page/Sketch 462 of 513 from Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations. –I am indifferent when I am not disposed. I am not passive when I am resigned. When you create, you endanger your freedom and that makes some people uncomfortable. Freedom is not the absence of danger, as we are made to believe.– Page read by KATHRYN GARCIA here: http://goo.gl/XBMg1e. Visit http://www.HavishamHour.com to order fine prints, listen to previous podcasts, and to learn more about this project. ©2014 Julio Panisello.

371What’s my narrative? I don’t know. Today I abhor the turpitude of my dreams last night, which were crowded with syrupy specters that were burning my eyes while I was trying to escape the puppet theater of my bodily existence. But tomorrow’s narrative, who knows? In fact, everything may change right after breakfast.

 

370The time has gone through the garbage disposal, and with it the corrupted memories. I turned the switch on so the detritus goes down the drain, all the way to the sewage, where it belongs, washed away with someone’s putrid bodily fluids. it has slipped through without a trace. I don’t even remember what this writing is about.