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

Posts tagged Herbert Pocket

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426Everything repeats itself in this Universe. Chaos becomes a dull routine. We drag on, in vain, invalidating our dreams, loathing everything and idolizing life. We watch beauty rot before our eyes, and resentfulness blossoms.

400My mind is so soupy and wooden this morning. I’m trying to milk some thrifty tears from somewhere, but I’m afraid I’m just going to sap some enervating ludicrousness. Sometimes, instead of coercing a fruitless dialogue with yourself,  it’s better to make some tea and take care of something shallow. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do.

 

399The moment a piece of artwork is made known to the world, either to a single person or the masses, it gets judged, classified, put in a box, and forgotten. No one remembers what they had the night before for dinner, because it makes no difference.

398These pages are like little paper boats. I make them, place them on an anonymous stream of water, and see them go and disappear. That’s all. Nothing else changes. Nothing else happens. I just repeat it over and over and over again. I don’t know why.

395It is a mystery why some mornings we wake up with a heavy hunger to knock down everything, alive or dead. Chores feel like a cereal bowl full of ashes. People feel like wilted plastic flowers left in the elements of an abandoned grave. We resent the weather outside, any kind of weather. Our eyes are tearless. We zoom in our fingernails to tune out. We want to end everything.

394There are no more new dawns. We have passed the time when we thought a new beginning was upon us. We are now rushing to study our demise. It’s a new era, the era of self-pity. There are no saviors in the horizon. Nothingness is very familiar now.

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.