They exchanged notes like children. My grandfather made his out of newspaper clippings (...) Meet me under the wooden bridge and I will show you things you have never, ever seen. The "M" was taken from the army that would take his mother's life: GERMAN FRONT ADVANCES ON SOVIET BORDER; the "eet" from their approaching warships: NAZI FLEET DEFEATS FRENCH AT LESACS; the "me" from the peninsula they were blue-eyeing: GERMANS SURVIVE CRIMEA; the "und" from too little, too late; AMERICAN WAR FUNDS REACH ENGLAND; the "er" from the dog of dogs: HITLER RENDERS NONAGGRESSION PACT INOPERATIVE...and so on, and so on, each note a collage of love that could never be, and war that could.

(J. S. Foer)

Sadness of the Fickle Human Nature:

or Why Being Enlightened and Being in Love is the Same.

-another one of those rants by someone who thinks too much at ungodly hours of the night-

I'm sitting here finding new sadnesses for Brod's list. I'm wonderring why it's so easy to come too dangerously close to losing something that ought to justify everything about why you ARE. And what do you call that then? What's close enough when even 'if', you have no other way to be? I'm listenning to crap, sad music (because everything human is imperfect and with it we have a tallent for creating bathos) and drawing out the difference between believing that God is One, and knowing that God is One.

How do I attest to a single truth when I'm condemned to change? How many faces can you face in a single reflection?

My enlightenment is not the life of a recluse nor an end to anything, when life persists.

It is to be constant in an inconstant world.

-And here's the Shakespeare part, not because no self respecting rant should be without Shakespeare, but because I don't know anything more relevant to all that I want to say these days, and fail so miserably at doing so.

Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

(...) it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

This here, is me flirting.
I am not in love.

She wished there were another commandment, an eleventh etched into the tablets: Do not change.
(J. S. Foer)

I'm gonna go back to writing poetry no one reads.