The smoke poured; luring out of the eyes - the weaving undertones of a man that knows, his oval eyes dilate in slices, slithering fragments of truth or illusion, his peering pupils sliding inside the worm hole he navigated with his protruding puffs of smoke, he followed them through; into the…
I love your silences, they are like mine. You are the only being before whom I am not distressed by my own silences. You have a vehement silence, one feels it is charged with essences, it is a strangely alive silence, like a trap open over a well, from which one can hear the secret murmur of the earth itself.
Anaïs Nin, Under a Glass Bell (1944)
the anguish of
his one great
he was prepared
-Tyler Knott Gregson-