Now I feel sleepy but I am not going to sleep. I get hold of a piece of paper and a pen and I am going to write. I feel within me a terrible power. I thought it all over as long ago as yesterday. It will be the story about a miracle worker who is living in our time and who doesn’t work any miracles. He knows that he is a miracle worker and that he can perform any miracle, but he doesn’t do so. He is thrown out of his flat and he knows that he only has to wave a finger and the flat will remain his, but he doesn’t do this; he submissively moves out of the flat and lives out of town in a shed. He is capable of turning this shed into a fine brick house, but he doesn’t do this; he carries on living in the shed and eventually dies, without having done a single miracle in the whole of his life. "The Old Woman," Daniil Kharms (via bride-of-bucky)

Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance. Jean-Paul Satre, Nausea (via whyallcaps)

(via whyallcaps)




rocknrollfuldead:

click to trip balls

starswaterairdirt:

Auroras glow above Jupiter and moon, 1981
Ron Miller

hfml:

The American Pavillion designed by Buckminster Fuller at the grounds of Expo 67 in Montreal, damaged by fire in 1976.