There is a manner in which certain things ask to be written, not so that they may be found, but because to exist in silence, for too long, eventually becomes insufficient. It is not urgency. It is something closer to a necessity that makes no noise, waiting patiently until it discovers the proper form. This archive was born in such a way.
Not as a diary. Not as a blog. Not as something that is updated merely for the sake of appearing alive. It is a place where certain thoughts come to rest, those which do not dissolve, those which return, those which insist with the silent obstinacy of things that truly belong to you...
This conversation will self destruct in five seconds. Unfortunately MSN has no such feature. # Some conversations should self destruct. Not because they’re scandalous. Because they’re STUPID and nobody should...
November hasn’t technically done anything wrong, which somehow makes it more irritating. # November irritates me. I don’t hate it. Hate would require personality. November is just there, greyly existing...
It is Saturday night and I am writing a blog post in full makeup. There is probably a diagnosis. # It’s Saturday night, I am wearing black trousers, a pink...
Privacy is apparently that thing everybody wants while simultaneously publishing quizzes about themselves. # I’ve been thinking about privacy all day because yesterday’s Beacon thing has infected my brain, and...
Beacon. A friendly little light guiding advertisers safely toward your social life. Adorable. # Beacon. What a reassuring name. It sounds like something that helps ships avoid rocks. A lighthouse....
If civilisation ends on a Monday I am simply going back to bed. # MONDAY APOCALYPSE. Alarm didn’t go off properly, or I turned it off without remembering, which is...
November has apparently signed a legal agreement requiring every surface in Milano to be the colour of wet pavement. # November is grey by contract. There is no other explanation....
Not all ghosts are dead people. Some are usernames you haven’t seen online in three years. # Ghosts. Appropriate title two days after Halloween, except I don’t mean white sheets...
Happy Halloween to everybody wearing fake blood, too much eyeliner or their normal Wednesday face. # HAPPY HALLOWEEN, FREAKS. XD I know Halloween here still has that slightly imported feeling...
Nothing actually happened, which somehow required four hours, two taxis, one broken heel and everybody becoming temporarily stupid. # Friday night disaster. Not real disaster. Nobody is dead, injured, arrested...
Blanket, tea, computer, Yuri, absolutely no shoes. This is civilisation. # BLANKET SUNDAY. I have discovered the only acceptable response to October temperatures and it is refusing to leave soft...
I asked for autumn. I would now like to review the return policy. # SOMEBODY GIVE ME SUMMER BACK. I know. I KNOW. Two weeks ago I was celebrating jackets...
Why?
Because every thought leaves a trace. If something moved you, disturbed you, softened you, or made you think, leave it here, quietly.