Philip K. Dick. What more can be possibly said about this outlandish individual when there have already been tens of fountain pens emptied, hundreds of typewriters jammed and thousands of keyboards broken in two over his bizarre "precise-adjectives-proof" prose? Not to mention millions of film
Half past Noon obliterates itself in favor of quarter to none. We are stranded in the middle of this indecipherable lucifer-ish hour which indicates neither the imminent necessity of dawn nor the continuous perseverance of night. Our weary eyes are fixed with hazy gazes, our
'We're all just out there, somewhere, waiting to /re/happen'
Scribble /slightly purified/
Three out of four. Numerals taking charge of verbs, adjectives, adverbs, their syntactic combinations and unsystematically anti-semantic disjunctions. Then a sudden explosiveness of succulency overthrows them all without the slightest throe of hesitation, conscience or
‘The artist, you see, must travel backwards in time. To become, once again, a child of dreams.’
Welcome to the second chapter of prequelo-sequelling adventures in Noonland! Last time we embarked on a delicious temporal escapade with Alice Liddell and Celia Hobart to 1998 and
Today we are going to dance. The party starts at noon sharp and is scheduled to end – if at all – well beyond each and every until of eternity.
I do not want to begin another text using one of the three most predictable openings – a rhetorical question, a quote and an anecdote – but I am afraid I will have to sign a Faustian pact with one of these three devils once
In a vast realm of anecdotes, being nothing more than just another floor of a multi-story edifice called “Life” (not necessarily the top one, neither the floor per se – it is probably more like an alcove so obvious in its presence, that we no
My Dear Platinum-eyed Reader, if it is conceivable for the never-ending divinity of letters to corrupt or get desecrated? And is it possible to forget the story which never ends? I can already sense the shine of your platinum smile…
There is no denying that I would enter a vapid land of infertile thought and mundane
repetitiveness, were I to elaborate on a well-known fact that out of a countless plethora
of books, some are considered rare because of their bewildering exactitude and
profundity, while some others, also
Lautréamont once came up with a comparison of beauty – extremely prophetic for the shape of things to come in the field of art and literature of the XX century – which says that it is the chance encounter of a sewing machine and an
Today I am going to write out of shame. At least that’s what it seems I am capable of doing right now. It is not a silent shame, which usually makes faces of some little scamps burn, after they have been caught stuffing the exhaust
Set in an undisclosed future, the book tells a story of Conrad Metcalf, a worn-out,
smart-mouthed private inquisitor in his early forties, who is very fond of snorting
one too many, while talking with women and shady-looking individuals.