Silhouette Future Quotes

She is a silhouette on the windowsill, an apparition in the alley, a woman there and gone again. She is a pocket full of witch-ways and a voice whispering the right words to the right woman, the clack of a cane against cobbles.

PILGRIM I bow to the lark and its tiny lifted silhouette fluttering before infinity. I promise myself to the mountain and to the foundation from which my future comes. I make my vow to the stream flowing beneath, and to the water falling towards all thirst, and I pledge myself to the sea to which it goes and to the mercy of my disappearance, and though I may be left alone or abandoned by the unyielding present or orphaned in some far unspoken place, I will speak with a voice of loyalty and faith to the far shore where everything turns to arrival, if only in the sound of falling waves and I will listen with sincere and attentive eyes and ears for a final invitation, so that I can be that note half-heard in the flying lark song, or that tint on a far mountain brushed with the subtle grey of dawn, even a river gone by still looking as if it hasn’t, or an ocean heard only as the sound of waves falling and falling, and falling, my eyes closing with them into some undeserved nothing even as they give up their strength on the sand.

He would muse about the greatness and the living presence of God; about the strange mystery of the eternal future; about the even stranger mystery of the eternal past; about all the infinities streaming in every direction before his very eyes; and, without trying to comprehend the incomprehensible, he saw it. He did not study God, he was dazzled by Him. He considered the magnificent collision of the atoms that produce what we see of matter, showing the forces at work by observing them, creating individuality within unity, proportion within extension, the numberless within the infinite, and producing beauty through light. Such collisions are constantly taking shape, bringing things together and pulling them apart; it is a matter of life and death. He would sit on a wooden bench with his back against a decrepit trellis and he would gaze at the stars through the scrawny stunted silhouettes of his fruit trees. This quarter-acre patch of ground, so sparsely planted, so crowded with sheds and shacks, was dear to him, was all he needed. What more could an old man need when he divided whatever spare time his life allowed, he who has so little spare time, between gardening of a day and contemplation of a night? Surely this small enclosure, with the sky as a ceiling, was enough to enable him to worship God by regarding His loveliest works and His most sublime works, one by one? Isn't that all there is? Indeed, what more could you want? A little garden to amble about it, and infinite space to dream in. At his feet, whatever could be grown and gathered; over his head, whatever could be studied and meditated upon; a few flowers on the ground and all the stars in the sky.

« Je connais son odeur. Ce petit grain de beauté dans son cou quand elle relève ses cheveux. Elle a la lèvre supérieure un peu plus charnue que l’inférieure. La courbe de son poignet, quand elle tient un stylo. C’est mal, c’est vraiment mal, mais je connais les contours de sa silhouette. J’y pense en me couchant, et puis je me lève, je vais bosser, et elle est là, et c’est insupportable. Je lui dis des trucs avec lesquels je sais qu’elle sera d’accord, juste pour l’entendre me répondre : « Hm-hm. » C’est sensuel comme la sensation de l’eau chaude sur mon dos, putain. Elle est mariée. Elle est brillante. Elle me fait confiance, et la seule chose que j’ai en tête c’est de l’amener dans mon bureau, la déshabiller, lui faire des choses inavouables. Et j’ai envie de le lui dire. J’ai envie de lui dire qu’elle est  lumineuse, elle brille d’un tel éclat dans mon esprit que ça m’empêche parfois de me concentrer. Parfois j’oublie pourquoi je suis entré dans la pièce. Je suis distrait. J’ai envie de la pousser contre un mur, et j’ai envie qu’elle se blottisse contre moi. J’ai envie de remonter le temps pour aller mettre un coup de poing à son stupide mari le jour où je l’ai rencontré, et ensuite repartir dans le futur pour lui en coller un autre. J’ai envie de lui acheter des fleurs, de la nourriture, des livres. J’ai envie de lui tenir la main, et de l’enfermer dans ma chambre. Elle est tout ce que j’ai toujours voulu, et je veux me l’injecter dans les veines, et à la fois ne plus jamais la revoir. Elle est unique, et ces sentiments, ils sont intolérables, putain. Ils étaient à moitié en sommeil tant qu’elle était absente, mais, maintenant elle est là, et je ne contrôle plus mon corps, comme un putain d’ado, et je ne sais pas quoi faire. Je ne sais pas quoi faire. Je ne peux rien faire, alors je vais juste… ne rien faire.  »

Youth Shadows settle on the place, that you left. Our minds are troubled by the emptiness. Destroy the middle, it's a waste of time. From the perfect start to the finish line. And if you're still breathing, you're the lucky ones. 'Cause most of us are heaving through corrupted lungs. Setting fire to our insides for fun Collecting names of the lovers that went wrong The lovers that went wrong. We are the reckless, We are the wild youth Chasing visions of our futures One day we'll reveal the truth That one will die before he gets there. And if you're still bleeding, you're the lucky ones. 'Cause most of our feelings, they are dead and they are gone. We're setting fire to our insides for fun. Collecting pictures from a flood that wrecked our home, It was a flood that wrecked this home. And you caused it, And you caused it, And you caused it Well I've lost it all, I'm just a silhouette, I'm a lifeless face that you'll soon forget, And my eyes are damp from the words you left, Ringing in my head, when you broke my chest. Ringing in my head, when you broke my chest. And if you're in love, then you are the lucky one, 'Cause most of us are bitter over someone. Setting fire to our insides for fun, To distract our hearts from ever missing them. But I'm forever missing him. And you caused it, And you caused it, And you caused it

The English language once had a word for the characteristic impression that a plant or animal offers to the eye. We called it the “jizz,” and the adoption of that term as sexual slang is unfortunate, as it seems unlikely we’ll come up with a replacement. It is the jizz, for example, that allows a skilled birdwatcher to know a bird by its silhouette alone , or by some quality of movement or the way it holds its head. The strangely unsteady flight of the turkey vulture, the flat forehead of the Barrow’s goldeneye, the endless headlong running of sanderlings on a mudflat— each of these is the jizz. It is so pure an essence that, if captured in a few rough lines drawn with charcoal, it can express an animal more authentically than a portrait by a trained artist who has never carefully watched the creatures he paints. It’s the jizz that ancient art so often represents. While looking at Egyptian treasures in a museum, I felt a rush of nostalgia when an engraving of a scarab beetle reminded me that I used to see a related species, the tumblebug, or Canthon simplex, roll balls of dung across my home prairie. I had completely forgotten; it took a 3,500-year-old artifact from another continent to make me remember.

His snowshoe paws are encased in chains as he hops on his hind legs. On his forehead was placed a wreath of thorns, crimson and blasphemous it was. His eyes were drenched in white, no colors can be discerned whatsoever in the reflection of his pupils, only a harrowing stillness of nothingness can be glimpsed through his gaze. He was the image of a ghostly figure, his silhouette swirling like the clouds in the loftiest mountains in eternal Paradise; a divine messenger before all animals and humanity. He wears shimmering chest armor resembling the scorching rays of the sunlight, with a fire crown of thorns burning on his forehead, which embodies the colors of the Earth's horizon, showcasing seventeen stars in its center. He had a voluminous, metallic beard, which was made of arctic sand from the Northern Winter lands - it was wizardly like - something out of a mythical folk tale that comes from a children's novel. His body glistens like the shattered fragments from the Moon, with his fur appearing like green moss surrounded by waterfalls flowing from each corner on his appearance - evolving into snowflakes, ice, as well as winter storms if you inflict your might at his anguish. He’s a supernatural being that all the Witches of the globe worshiped. He is greater, more superior, more virtuous than all deities people pray to on Earth. He’s the lunar father of all the Heavens and Earth, the All-father of all Animals and Mankind. When you see the Hare flying in the skies of the Universe, He’s bestowing the blessings of Sprout, Summer, Autumn, Winter. As the Hare Lunar King steps on the green grass, the mountains will begin to shake, the oceans will become huge typhoons, earthquakes will rumble across the nations as mankind annihilates each other in the guise of the Hare Lunar Emperor. However, the hare will grieve for all humankind, for he knows that the Earth is devoid of vengeance, so he must demolish it in preparation to reconstruct it from a pristine foundation. That future is nigh, that soon will arrive - it’s unfolding as I converse. The Lunar Rabbit King is coming back with his swarm of rabbits - mankind will not evade the menace of long ears - for their King will tell the sinister world with a voice of a thundering lion roar, ‘it is completed! go into the depths of your abysmal eternity, and enslave yourself as the locust of the earth in the fires of tribulation, for you will be tormented from sunrise to sunset, where sunlight is no more; forevermore.

Il regarde autour de lui la ville dans la nuit, les silhouettes tranquilles des passants, ses bâtiments, ses éclairages, les voitures qu'il croise, les feux aux carrefours, égrenant, imperturbables, leur code de couleurs, tout cet ordonnancement, ce décorum nocturne, opérationnel de la civilisation industrielle, et il se demande comment tout ça tient encore debout, tous ces réseaux, cette énergie, cet assemblage complexe, tant cela lui semble relever d'un château de cartes auquel on en rajoute sans cesse une autre puis une autre en pariant sur la stabilité de l'ensemble. Il est persuadé, Jourdan, que ça va se casser la gueule, que les lumières s'éteindront, que les images saturant les écrans, les voix surgies du lointain n'arriveront plus nulle part, perdues dans d'infranchissables distances comme ces oueds absorbés par le désert. Il ne sait pas quand ni comment mais il est sûr que ça se produira, chaos climatique, incendies géants, épidémies, les conjugaisons du pire sont déjà imprimées, leurs règles implacables connues de tous, au futur exclusivement. Temps barbare vers quoi on apprend encore des enfants à marcher.

I was starting to grasp the mysteries of the city in which we had been moving for many hours now. It was as if I sensed its hidden spaces, its secret lives, the windows where people’s silhouettes passed for a moment and disappeared forever. I glimpsed, in the broken lines of those streets, the hidden code of my present life and above all my future one.