THE 𝕯𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐘 OF THE 𝓐𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑳.

a library curated by @ctzencasey. visceral & grotesque description. heavy themes such as existentialism & suicide are present. follow at your own discretion. musings include a variety of hand picked literature.

I realised that his death severed the one and only thread that still connected me with the bright world of daylight. it was because of the lost daylight, the lost brightness, the lost summer, that I was crying.

what is there, then, at the outermost edge? nothing, perhaps, save a few ribbons, dangling into the void.

villages below and meandering streams grow more tolerable as our distance grows. why do they please, approve, lure me with promise that I may love the human, if only it is seen, thus, from afar——

to see human beings in agony, to see them covered in blood and to hear their death groans, makes people humble.

what transforms this world is knowledge.

I admitted to myself that I could never become him and, upon further consideration, that my desire to become like him had in fact been love for him.

might it not be that through the innermost recesses of love there courses an unattainable longing in which both the man and the woman desire to become the exact image of the other?

there is no expression whatsoever. the picture has a genuinely chilling, foreboding quality—— as if it caught him in the act of dying as he sat before the camera.

even the blossoming flowers will eventually scatter, who in this world shall remain unchanged? let us today, cross the mountains of impermanence and no longer have superficial dreams, nor be deluded.

for me, beauty is always retreating from one’s grasp; the only thing I consider important is what existed once, or ought to have existed.

suddenly there came into view from one corner of the next page a picture that I had to believe had been lying in wait there for me, for my sake.

anything can become excusable when seen from the standpoint of a result.

what was the basis of this creature’s existence? was the basis within me?

when one considers well, it seems likely that many a time, even in the midst of a sweet kiss, a foretaste of the agony of death must have furrowed his brow with a fleeting shadow of pain.

anything can become excusable when seen from the standpoint of a result.

mine has been a life of shame.

nothingness was the very structure of this beauty.

insensitive people are only upset when they actually see the blood. yet, by the time that blood has been shed, the tragedy is already completed.

all I feel are the assaults of apprehension and terror at the thought that I am the only one who is entirely unlike the rest.

they stood looking down at my corpse.