Oh, it’s the simplest thing.
At the end of the day, the cigarette ashes trailing.
What can be an instrument? Oh, it’s the simplest thing.
The end of the day. The animals go back to the woods.
Used is a subjective feeling.
Yes, we acknowledge multitudes before flicking white stubs into the scenery.
We hold her down, brand our name into the forearm, and after, still holding, we look into her eyes.
The animals go back to the woods.
There is no artistry here.
I am a myth of expression.
No elegance can avoid white stubs and ash. Elegance is instrumental.
Oh, it’s the simplest thing. Wait for the end of the day. Hold her down, brand your name into the forearm, and after, still holding, look into her eyes.
some double exposed photos I took// from my most recent roll of film
— Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (via feellng)
Ugo Rondinone, If, (1993)
Steel, leather, gum, ink, cotton, photographs, paper, electric pump; dimensions variable