This quote was just too good to not super-impose on a hipster filter photo.
Thanks to fuckinghomepage.com
You mean big lightning bolts and a heart where you can’t eat and you can’t work and you just run off and get married and make babies?
The reason you haven’t felt it is because it doesn’t exist. What you call love was invented by guys like me to sell nylons
You’re born alone and you die alone and this world just drops a bunch of rules on you to make you forget this fact.
But I never forget. I’m living like there’s no tomorrow, because there isn’t one.
So I may or may not be a bit cynical about love…but, I really gotta start watching this show again.
Two hundred and forty four comments was enough.
Enough to learn that being a foreigner it isn’t my place to comment on US gun laws, nor the complexities of Constitutional amendments. Enough to learn that I am, in the eyes of some, a shameless opportunist that would use a tragedy to promote an agenda. Enough that, as is always the case, I should not overstep my bounds and forget that I am just an artist and therefore shouldn’t have an opinion.
Having read those 244 comments I will say this: if only poverty, human rights, and a plethora of other issues had the same stalwart advocates that firearms do, imagine what a world this would be.
Last night a man walked into a movie theatre and committed a crime. It’s not the first of its nature, be it in the United States or elsewhere, nor will it be the last. What occurred last night was tragic, but no more so than what occurred on 46 years ago at the University of Texas at Austin or in Norway last summer.
We are the sons and daughters of violence. Utterly glorified, its imagery has become to us a long familiar bedfellow. From childhood we are inundated by its presence, as if new forged Alex’s having endured the Ludovico Technique in the womb. It’s perceived majesty engrained in our DNA precisely because we possess no frame of reference as to its realities.
To us, violence is a game until something ugly disrupts the constancy of the ubiquitous white noise in which we dwell. But even then, our Technicolor landscape is only momentarily disrupted by the briefest of shivers.
It is ludicrous to believe that something designed to kill should be viewed negatively. Such things are, after all, inanimate objects. But take no comfort in their insentience, for their ghosting voices emit a longing akin to that most ancient of jars gifted the earth formed daughter of Hephaestus. And that voice will never quiet, but urge the hand ever forward until the gun and person become indistinguishable.