Dirty Projectors - Impregnable Question (Official Video)
There’s a quietness in her eyes. Only look closer, know the real her, and see the fear and hesitance that holds her deep. She writes words to paper, little notes of shaking ink and hands wrought with disappointment and dread. They are heavy and tense and always concerned. Coffee for days, coffee and whiskey to stifle the cold, a cautiousness that defines a hopeful life.
His life was lived in the shadow of a sun that time forgot, embedded in the dark and lonely place, all the lives that had come to be within its time, the worth of it all fell beneath the dark of a dying star. What once was and what would stand to be, and all the things ever meant to be known, ever cared to be felt, made in the shadow of a dying star.
think im gonna turn this blog into nothin but jaden smith quotes. like for real doe
She speaks her love from bough to root and loves her place before I can mention a thing.
I don’t know the things of you.
I can’t say that I am knowing of you.
There is a fire that needs to be set.
Can you make it?
I think I can do this.
A fog rises and falls and the green settles and makes its place in the unknown. There is a crack in the wood, an unsettling sound. I tell her it is just the night. She agrees and goes with the light. The wood falls, the trees nestle. All is good within the night.
I wrote of you.
We had a thing.
Didn’t we? A woodly thing?
I don’t know.
We’re cut from the same cloth.
So, It’s a curious thing?
It’s a thing.
We make fires and sense and the things needing to be held in the middle of midnight, a terrible thing when notebooks arise and night begets wonder and we all just are curious of what could possibly come to be. What is it when words are writ for a falling sort, when the feelings of one become futile in their work.
I only know your words.
So, you really don’t know me?
I know your words.
I know you.
Yes. I do.
Morgan makes the stories from known things and things regretted, the things told in story time between friends and lovers, all the things wished to be known but too cussed to actually be known. He tells the scandalous natured fuck-ups. He tells what’s not to ever be known. He’s the definition of a “fucker”.
I’d love to spill a story about a man and a thing he didn’t want to do, something about a boy and something that happened to him, but that is just boring. It’s just dull and lame and remiss of anything captivating. The truth of the matter is, right here and right now, I am tossed and sauced and ready to leave you with a proper story. A story about loss and longing and what it is to be someone you could have possibly been. Is this a thing you want to read? Fuck you, if you don’t. Fuck all. This is what you’re in to, lines deep into nonsense. This is the subscribed bullshit of a fool. So, if you’re in, then sit tight, for this unedited bullshit of drunken hipocrisy!
Jack drove stories from written word and failed family, a young boy missing the things that young boys should always know. Jack never knew a BMX track, never knew what “The Wild Things Were” or whatever the bullshit begat them. Jack was an orphan. Through and through. Let’s call it that. He was a loner and a loser and a child that no person wanted. But Jack was a child that held still, a child that made things from nothing.
Jack was a special person. Jack was a special kid.
i spent some time — hardly any time at all, but still, some time — laying next to a man twelve years older than me. and i felt it, but i also didn’t. i mean, he never made me feel it. he never looked at me and said “you’re so young,” but he knew what he was getting himself into. one day, he told…