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I write because I talk, excessively.
My favourite smell is skin.
I am a homebody.

visitors, since 2008

May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 November 2005 March 2006 May 2006 May 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009 May 2009 June 2009 July 2009 August 2009 September 2009 October 2009 November 2009 December 2009 January 2010 February 2010 March 2010 April 2010 July 2010 August 2010 September 2010 October 2010 November 2010 January 2011 February 2011 March 2011 August 2011 September 2011 March 2012


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“We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love.”


Bienvenue! Nice to eat you.


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8:55 PM
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Having a coke with you is better than?
I promise to write 3 times a day to make up for lost time! Lies don't get more obvious.

The absence is due to an internet detachment, other things have filled up time. Yesterday Dear John taught me something about time: it always runs out. I expected more from the film, but still I felt a level of intimacy with John and Salvanah until the story unfolded unnaturally. I think films are movies but movies are not films.

I remember liking this:

" The only one film I want to make, I will never make because it is Impossible. It is a film on love, or of love, or with love. To speak in the mouth, to touch the breast, for women to imagine and see the body, the sex of the man, a caress a shoulder, things as difficult to show and intend as horror, as war, and sicknesses are. ''

Jean-Luc Godard

( I typed that out, because i can't paste in blogger anymore! )

My favourite module this semester is Politics... a great lecturer and good topics and an open platform with so many ideas, ideas and more ideas. Such fascinating words as panapticon, false consciousness, John Locke Thomas Hobbes Plato neo-realism anarchy... words that had no meaning to be before.

On Fridays I revisit ballet, a childhood enemy. I enjoy it now, possibly as much as I used to hate it. It hurts more but makes greater sense. I walked in the rain in pink tights, the rain and mud dirtied it, and a car gliding across water made my legs look like they belong to a brown spotted cow.

It is funny, I want to write; there can only be too much to talk about when u disappear this long, but memory is strange, I don't remember well and in my mind there are just pockets of memory, not distinct enough to form paragraphs. I always wonder why memory happens this way: as time transcends we forget more and more... and we try to hold on to certain images, visual perhaps or maybe a feeling? But as that memory blurs we struggle more intensely to keep it and this image becomes more vivid and colored as we want it to be. Eventually we are not sure if we made something up ourselves! I am not making sense here =)