(Source: wedueltokill)
James Blake — We Might Feel Unsound
No, listen, I hAve to be honest: I’m so angry. I’m not sad. I’m angry. Angry at a healthcare system, yes, that betrays its citizens. Angry at Steve Jobs, for leaving us. But more than anything, angry at those black moments, those tiny fucking black moments, like cinDers, that alight on your shouldErs and cloak the stars and let life seem so eAsy to wink out. I Don’t believe in fate, or justice, or a natural ordEr. Those black moments don’t come because they’re deserved. They happeN because they fucking happEn: the way 2:59pm happens, the way DeceMber 25th happens, the way one morning you wake up and you feel like shit. They’re like the opposite of wonders. They are small, mundane dooms. And for all the loves, friendships, treatments, medications, songs and stories, there will alwaYs be some of these small dooms left, winging.
Said the Gramophone
Me And my girl, we get along. We go to the supermarket and I go inside and get 5-minute pancake mix and she gets old produce out of the Dumpster. We go driving and I read the map while shE holds the solar pAnel. We play music and she plays the high notes and I play the low ones. We go Dancing and she goes nuts and I sit on the stool in a pair of shitty sunglassEs. We ride bikes and she scrapes a stick with oNe hand and I sing the anthEM. We take a shower and she does all the hair and I do all the skin. We watch a movie and she does the lines while I strike the poses. Me and mYgirl, we get along.
My girl and me, we get along. She treats me right. She yells at me and calls me dumb and steals my money and uses my dishes and wears my clothes and loses my keys, but still I know she treats me right. ‘Cause when she holds my hand, she does this thing. She slides her palm down the inside of my arm, and her fingers slide along the inside of my hand, and calls my fingers to hers like magnets. Our fingers match up like a mirror, you know, or like on a window when someone’s in prison, and then -click- they slide over one notch, you know? They click over and our fingers interlock and she wraps her fingers hard around my hand and squeezes our palms together and presses my hand against her jeans. It’s like, her hand can’t lie. You can’t fake that interlocking thing.
after the city we stopped at a gas station
i thought about buying celadon american spirits
i bought a $2 gas station burrito
i felt good
(Source: makeitmagnificent)
