We think nothing of Time but its Loss

We, whose anguished wish is that our last words not be, "Wait."

hide yer face or close them eyes

Falsehood is invariably the child of fear, in one form or another.

People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that's bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they're afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they're wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It's all in how you carry it. That's what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you're letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain. -Jim Morrison

'

heads up down on feel under coverers

The Biggest Beauties

films stills fills flimsy slims

Life is beautiful. Really, it is. Full of beauty and illusions. Life is great. Without it, you'd be dead.

"When you are young not much matters.

When you find something you like that's all you got."

"What if you can't make yourself happy?"

"Then I don't know. You know what you do then you forget, you block it out... If you want to be happy don't think... if you stutter don't talk."

"You're the one who stopped."

"Yes, but I can start walking again."

Surgical class at UPenn 1915

WWI Medical journal

neurological exam on a black and white baby

Stroke

bullet through the head

To the Moon by Giacomo Leopardi

Oh gracious moon, now as the year turns,

I remember how, heavy with sorrow,

I climbed this hill to gaze on you,

And then as now you hung above those trees

Illuminating all. But to my eyes

Your face seemed clouded, temulous

From the tears that rose beneath my lids,

So painful was my life: and is, my

Dearest moon; its tenor does not change.

And yet, memory and numbering the epochs

Of my grief is pleasing to me. How welcome

In that youthful time -when hope's span is long,

And memory short -is the remembrance even of

Past sad things whose pain endures.

S`io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero, Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

If I thought that my reply would be to someone who would ever return to earth, this flame would remain without further movement; but as no one has ever returned alive from this gulf, if what I hear is true, I can answer you with no fear of infamy.

Let us go then, you and I, 

When the evening is spread out against the sky 

Like a patient etherized upon a table; 

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, 

The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels 

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: 

Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent 

To lead you to an overwhelming question... 

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" 

Let us go and make our visit.