For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

—Khalil Gibran

influx

Looking at the stars always makes me dream, as simply as I dream over the black dots representing towns and villages on a map. 
Why, I ask myself, shouldn’t the shining dots of the sky be as accessible as the black dots on the map of France?

Just as we take a train to get to Tarascon or Rouen, we take death to reach a star. We cannot get to a star while we are alive any more than we can take the train when we are dead. So to me it seems possible that cholera, tuberculosis and cancer are the celestial means of locomotion. Just as steamboats, buses and railways are the terrestrial means.

To die quietly of old age would be to go there on foot.
—Vincent Van Gogh

Death is centrifugal

Gravity’s Rainbow

Go ahead, capitalize the T on technology, deify it if it’ll make you feel less responsible — but it puts you in with the neutered, brother, in with the eunuchs keeping the harem of our stolen Earth for the numb and joyless hardons of human sultans, human elite with no right at all to be where they are.
–Thomas Pynchon

fear attracts the fearful.

they wait in the fog…

black jester

Bi-products of intelligence, ego and materialism, are both false happiness, thus society as we know it is a lie. Now we choose, be the lie and live or ignore the lie and die.

ethical nihilism

The earthly meaning of eternal life was death, and she refused to die.

exerpt//song of myself

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.

 

LII
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains
of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow’d wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.
–Walt Whitman