Y recordando un poco a la chica collage:
"La agitación de otras personas vs. la agitación interior que nadie más sabe que siento."

Hora de respirar y escupir fuego, supongo.

Dark spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway. The trees had been stripped by a recent wind of their white covering frost, and they seemed to lean toward eachother, black and ominous, in the fading light. A vast silence reigned over the land. The land itself was a desolation, lifeless, without movement, so lone and cold that the spirit of it was not even that of sadness. There was a hint in it of laughter, but of a laughter more terrible than any sadness -- a laughter that was mirthless as the smile of the Sphinx, a laughter cold as the frost and partaking of the grimness of infabillity. It was the masterful and incommunicable wisdom of eternity laughing at the futility of life and the effort of life. It was the Wild, the savage, frozen-hearted Northland Wild.

Jack London,

"White Fang"

But have you noticed the slight curl at the end of Sam II's mouth, when he looks at you? It means that he didn't want you to name him Sam II, for one thing, and for two other things it means that he has sawed-off his left pant leg, and a baling hook in his right pant leg, and is ready to kill you with either one of them, given the opportunity. The father is taken abck. What he usually says, in such a confrontation, is "I changed your diapers for you, you little snot." This is not the right thing to say. First, it is not true (mother change nine diapers out of ten), and second, it instantly reminds Sam II of what he is mad about. He is mad about being small when you were big, but no, that's not it, he is mad about being helpless when you were powerful, but bo, not that either, he is mad about being contingent when you were necessary, not wuite it, he is insane because when he loved you, you didn't notice.

Donald Barthelme,

"The Dead Father"

Wilderness appealed to those bored or disgusted with man and his works. It not only offered an escape from society but also was an ideal stage for the Romantic individual to exercise the cult that he frequently made of his own soul. The solitude and total freedom of the wilderness created a perfect setting for either melancholy or exultation.

Roderick Nash,

"Wilderness and the American Mind"

Nature here was something savage and awful, though beautiful. I looked in awe at the ground I trod on, to see what the Powers had made there, the form and fashion and material of their work. This was the Earth of which we had heard, made out of Chaos and Old Night. Here was no man's garden, but the unhandselled globe. It was not lawn, nor pasture, nor mead, nor woodland, nor lea, nor arable, nor waste land. It was the fresh and natural surface of the planet Earth, as it was made forever and ever, -- to be the dwelling of man, we say, -- so Nature made it, and man may use it if he can. Man was not to be associated with it. It was Matter, vast, terrific, -- not this Mother Earth that we have heard of, not for him to trad on, or to be buried in, -- no, it were being too familiar even to let his bones lie there, -- the home, this, of Necessity and Fate. There was clearly felt the presence of a force not bound to be kind to man. It was a place of heathenism and superstitious rites, -- to be inhabited by men nearer of kin to the rocks and to wild animals than we... What is it to be admitted to a museum, to see a myriad of particular things, compared with being shown some star's surface, some hard matter in its home! I stand in awe of my body, this matter to which I am bound has become so strange to me. I fear not spirits, ghosts, of which I am one, -- that my body might, -- but I fear bodies, I tremble to meet them. What is this Titan that has possession of me? Talk of mysteries! Think of our life in nature, -- daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it, -- rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! the solid earth! the actual world! the common sense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? where are we?

Henry David Thoreau,

"Ktaadn"

A mí no me engañas... yo sé quién eres.

Cuentos de los abuelos (parte V)

"Veamos... Si yo ingresé en el 57, y me casé en el 60, 61... debía de ser sobre el año 58.
Yo estaba destinado en Cádiz, y tenía un primo carnal en Tetuán que se había quedado al servicio del gobierno marroquí cuando España concedió la independencia. Se quedó de secretario del gobernador civil de Tetuán.
Se me ocurrió darle una sorpresa e ir a visitarle, y conseguí que el Almirante Jefe de las Fuerzas Navales del Estrecho me diera un pase que decía tal que así:

El Almirante Jefe de las Fuerzas Navales del Estrecho saluda al Gobernador Civil de Tetuán y le ruega que le permitan el acceso a...

Al llegar a la frontera enseñé el pase, los hombres que estaban de servicio hablaron árabe entre ellos, y luego me dijeron que siguiera a uno que era muy grande. Le seguí hasta la calle, hasta la parada de un bus, donde me dijo "Que tenga un buen viaje"... ¡y de vuelta me mandaron a Ceuta!

¡Se limpiaron el culo con el saludo del Almirante Jefe de las Fuerzas Navales del Estrecho!

Llamé a mi primo, "¡Ángel! Que quise darte una sorpresa y me pasó esto...", y mi primo me dijo "¿Cuándo te quieres venir?" "¡Pues mañana!" "Pues vente aquí y preséntate."

Al día siguiente había movido hilos y gracias a que era secretario del gobernador civil de Tetuán pude pasar a visitarle. Pero el desprecio que nos tenían a los españoles no tenía límite..."

Hablemos de cómo estamos todos mediatizados mientras se piensa en lo poco que se ven las estrellas desde la ciudad. (A la chica mariposa se le atragantan las palabras y la complejidad de la vida le abruma por un momento hasta el punto de tener que dejar la mesa.)
Flores muertas, complejos de ignorancia contra los que es difícil argumentar, voces que llegan desde otros balcones. 
Hablemos de vacunarnos contra las mentiras e ilusiones grupales, hablemos de vacunarnos contra vuestra inseguridad.
Hablemos de las armas de las chicas mariposa.

 ("Guía Celeste de ellas mismas".)

Otro momento de esos para atesorar

Años ha que nos conocemos, pero

 nunca habíamos cantado esa versión del "Hallelujah" 

solos en el coche por una carretera ondulante, 

un día gris y sobretodo verde-vida, 

con niebla fresca inundándonos tímidamente.

Y como ese, 

cientos de momentos 

que pasan cada día debajo de mi nariz y que solo ahora 

estoy volviendo a apreciar plenamente.

De verdad, ¿quién dijo que la felicidad no estaba nunca en los demás, si no sólo en uno mismo? 

La joven Miss Take ha muerto una vez más.

Están reconstruyendo lo que parece una ciudad entera alrededor de su tumba, 

y la estatua del ángel tapando la lápida con una sábana ya no se ve entre las bibliotecas,

 las flores, y las cafeterías vintage.

Bloodflood - Alt-j

A wave, 
an awesome wave, 
that rushes skin and wides in blodded veins
Breathe in... exhale...


Flood of blood to the heart