“A schizophrenic vocation: even in his catatonic or anorexic state, Bartleby is not the patient but the doctor of a sick America, the Medicine‑Man, the new Christ or the brother to us all.”
— Gilles Deleuze, Bartleby; or, The Formula, in Essays Critical and Clinical
— Gilles Deleuze, Bartleby; or, The Formula, in Essays Critical and Clinical
February 7, 2026 at 9:15 AM
“A schizophrenic vocation: even in his catatonic or anorexic state, Bartleby is not the patient but the doctor of a sick America, the Medicine‑Man, the new Christ or the brother to us all.”
— Gilles Deleuze, Bartleby; or, The Formula, in Essays Critical and Clinical
— Gilles Deleuze, Bartleby; or, The Formula, in Essays Critical and Clinical
“The presence of death annihilates all superstitions. We are the children of death, and it is death that rescues us from the deceptions of life.”
— Sadeq Hedayat: The Blind Owl
— Sadeq Hedayat: The Blind Owl
February 7, 2026 at 7:52 AM
“The presence of death annihilates all superstitions. We are the children of death, and it is death that rescues us from the deceptions of life.”
— Sadeq Hedayat: The Blind Owl
— Sadeq Hedayat: The Blind Owl
Morning kneels in a gray robe. I baptize it with bitter coffee and a slow-burning cigarette. Smoke writes what I refuse to say: that the day is a repetition of yesterday’s failure. Still, I sip, I inhale—small apostasies against despair, rehearsing survival in the ash of dawn.
February 7, 2026 at 6:42 AM
Morning kneels in a gray robe. I baptize it with bitter coffee and a slow-burning cigarette. Smoke writes what I refuse to say: that the day is a repetition of yesterday’s failure. Still, I sip, I inhale—small apostasies against despair, rehearsing survival in the ash of dawn.
“My drawings inspire and do not define themselves. They determine nothing. They place us, just as music does, in the ambiguous world of the indeterminate.”
— Odilon Redon
— Odilon Redon
February 7, 2026 at 6:24 AM
“My drawings inspire and do not define themselves. They determine nothing. They place us, just as music does, in the ambiguous world of the indeterminate.”
— Odilon Redon
— Odilon Redon
Ah, those gray winter days—so monotonous they almost console me. Even the weather refuses to descend to my mood; it lingers above it, pale and indifferent, as if despair were a distinction reserved for humans alone.
February 6, 2026 at 9:31 AM
Ah, those gray winter days—so monotonous they almost console me. Even the weather refuses to descend to my mood; it lingers above it, pale and indifferent, as if despair were a distinction reserved for humans alone.
If you are not prepared, like Orpheus, to descend into the damp throat of the underworld for the one you name as love—if you tremble before the dark and bargain with shadows—tell me, is it love at all, or only a timid hymn you sing to your own reflection?
February 5, 2026 at 2:19 PM
If you are not prepared, like Orpheus, to descend into the damp throat of the underworld for the one you name as love—if you tremble before the dark and bargain with shadows—tell me, is it love at all, or only a timid hymn you sing to your own reflection?
„Ich leide furchtbar an mir – und nur in dem Gedanken an Sie finde ich Augenblicke von Mut und Höhe.“
Nietzsches an Lou Andreas-Salomé (Aus einem Brief vom Sommer 1882.)
Nietzsches an Lou Andreas-Salomé (Aus einem Brief vom Sommer 1882.)
February 3, 2026 at 6:37 PM
„Ich leide furchtbar an mir – und nur in dem Gedanken an Sie finde ich Augenblicke von Mut und Höhe.“
Nietzsches an Lou Andreas-Salomé (Aus einem Brief vom Sommer 1882.)
Nietzsches an Lou Andreas-Salomé (Aus einem Brief vom Sommer 1882.)
The winter Sunday unfolds like a pale memory reluctant to rise, its light diluted by frost upon the windowpane. Silence lingers in the corridors of the morning, as if time itself hesitates, and the heart, wrapped in blankets of recollection, tastes a sweetness tinged with irretrievable hours.
February 1, 2026 at 8:02 AM
The winter Sunday unfolds like a pale memory reluctant to rise, its light diluted by frost upon the windowpane. Silence lingers in the corridors of the morning, as if time itself hesitates, and the heart, wrapped in blankets of recollection, tastes a sweetness tinged with irretrievable hours.
Saturday morning arrived like a shy guest, illuminating the window with pale, sleepy light. The street below was resting peacefully, still immersed in sacred silence. The coffee exuded an exotic bitterness. Time stretched out lazily and unhurriedly, as if it would rather lie in silence too.
January 31, 2026 at 7:38 AM
Saturday morning arrived like a shy guest, illuminating the window with pale, sleepy light. The street below was resting peacefully, still immersed in sacred silence. The coffee exuded an exotic bitterness. Time stretched out lazily and unhurriedly, as if it would rather lie in silence too.
"Love is often just fear wearing perfume. I have loved like a match burns—briefly, with intention to destroy itself. What remains is smoke, and even that stings the eyes."
J. P. Kamov: The Dried-Up Mire
J. P. Kamov: The Dried-Up Mire
January 29, 2026 at 8:49 AM
"Love is often just fear wearing perfume. I have loved like a match burns—briefly, with intention to destroy itself. What remains is smoke, and even that stings the eyes."
J. P. Kamov: The Dried-Up Mire
J. P. Kamov: The Dried-Up Mire
Every relationship starts out with bad basic conditions. From the beginning, it is assumed that they will become invalid over time — they melt into nothingness, like the ancient frescoes in Fellini's Roma.
January 26, 2026 at 8:30 PM
Every relationship starts out with bad basic conditions. From the beginning, it is assumed that they will become invalid over time — they melt into nothingness, like the ancient frescoes in Fellini's Roma.
"Beauty will save the world,” says Dostoevsky.
But what beauty? Not the aesthetic that flatters the eye and dissolves in boredom. Only the beauty that wounds— that demands inwardness—can save. It saves not the crowd, but the single individual who dares to suffer for it.
But what beauty? Not the aesthetic that flatters the eye and dissolves in boredom. Only the beauty that wounds— that demands inwardness—can save. It saves not the crowd, but the single individual who dares to suffer for it.
January 25, 2026 at 8:35 AM
"Beauty will save the world,” says Dostoevsky.
But what beauty? Not the aesthetic that flatters the eye and dissolves in boredom. Only the beauty that wounds— that demands inwardness—can save. It saves not the crowd, but the single individual who dares to suffer for it.
But what beauty? Not the aesthetic that flatters the eye and dissolves in boredom. Only the beauty that wounds— that demands inwardness—can save. It saves not the crowd, but the single individual who dares to suffer for it.
Sunday arrives without conviction. The light is pale and already tired, as if it had not slept. The street below is empty, but not peacefully so—rather abandoned. Coffee cools too quickly. Nothing happens, yet the hours feel spent. Even hope seems repetitive, like a habit one keeps without belief.
January 25, 2026 at 7:05 AM
Sunday arrives without conviction. The light is pale and already tired, as if it had not slept. The street below is empty, but not peacefully so—rather abandoned. Coffee cools too quickly. Nothing happens, yet the hours feel spent. Even hope seems repetitive, like a habit one keeps without belief.
I doubt one could find a more truthful vision of the clash between reality and imagination than in René Magritte’s paintings, where the ordinary is quietly sabotaged and the impossible enters with perfect logic, revealing how fragile our sense of the real truly is.
January 19, 2026 at 12:16 PM
I doubt one could find a more truthful vision of the clash between reality and imagination than in René Magritte’s paintings, where the ordinary is quietly sabotaged and the impossible enters with perfect logic, revealing how fragile our sense of the real truly is.
I savor Y.'s whispers, the fevered, gluttonous obscenities of her young, slender body. They ignite life's void with a flickering warmth. Yes, it can disappear, yet the blaze lingers, stubborn, obscene, a scar upon the dark, indelible and insatiable.
January 18, 2026 at 9:06 AM
I savor Y.'s whispers, the fevered, gluttonous obscenities of her young, slender body. They ignite life's void with a flickering warmth. Yes, it can disappear, yet the blaze lingers, stubborn, obscene, a scar upon the dark, indelible and insatiable.
I must defend myself from Y.’s voluptuous beauty, from the obscene innocence of her youth, from that voice whose sweetness humiliates me; yet this defense is already a lie, for if I do not consent to burn in the wound of my desire for her, then life itself becomes an indecent postponement.
January 14, 2026 at 6:58 AM
I must defend myself from Y.’s voluptuous beauty, from the obscene innocence of her youth, from that voice whose sweetness humiliates me; yet this defense is already a lie, for if I do not consent to burn in the wound of my desire for her, then life itself becomes an indecent postponement.
We sat sealed in the café’s rancid smoke. N. flayed the blonde with his stare, narrating desire like a failed sacrifice. He muttered: she’ll sleep alone, never knowing the beautiful obscenity I’ll squander on her—the slit of her dress, an impossible wound where thought leaks and desire rots.
January 13, 2026 at 10:23 AM
We sat sealed in the café’s rancid smoke. N. flayed the blonde with his stare, narrating desire like a failed sacrifice. He muttered: she’ll sleep alone, never knowing the beautiful obscenity I’ll squander on her—the slit of her dress, an impossible wound where thought leaks and desire rots.
She curls up on the tram, a small act of defiance against the silence. Her body is shy, almost apologetic. I watch her furtively, as one would a relic that must not be touched. Her awkwardness permeates the air, creating a strange aura. Beauty is born where breath is held and fear still exists.
January 10, 2026 at 4:38 PM
She curls up on the tram, a small act of defiance against the silence. Her body is shy, almost apologetic. I watch her furtively, as one would a relic that must not be touched. Her awkwardness permeates the air, creating a strange aura. Beauty is born where breath is held and fear still exists.
MADAM EDWARDA exposes holiness in obscenity: God appears where desire annihilates the self. Bataille insists that sovereignty is not purity but excess, where shame ignites revelation and eroticism becomes a thinking wound, tearing consciousness open to the impossible.
January 10, 2026 at 10:17 AM
MADAM EDWARDA exposes holiness in obscenity: God appears where desire annihilates the self. Bataille insists that sovereignty is not purity but excess, where shame ignites revelation and eroticism becomes a thinking wound, tearing consciousness open to the impossible.
Masao Yamamoto’s photographs feel less like images than like memories exhumed. Small, worn, often stained, they breathe silence and impermanence. His practice turns photography into a ritual of touch, loss, and quiet devotion to the fleeting.
January 6, 2026 at 3:34 PM
Masao Yamamoto’s photographs feel less like images than like memories exhumed. Small, worn, often stained, they breathe silence and impermanence. His practice turns photography into a ritual of touch, loss, and quiet devotion to the fleeting.
In Yamanaka Yōko’s movie Desert of Namibia, the days move like tired feet. Nothing erupts; everything erodes. The heroine passes rooms and streets as if already absent, carrying a small, dull pain. The desert is not outside—it is the patience of living without reply.
January 4, 2026 at 10:54 AM
In Yamanaka Yōko’s movie Desert of Namibia, the days move like tired feet. Nothing erupts; everything erodes. The heroine passes rooms and streets as if already absent, carrying a small, dull pain. The desert is not outside—it is the patience of living without reply.
On New Year’s Eve I sat with friends in a small Viennese bar. Laughter moved around me, yet my eyes kept returning to a photograph by a Japanese photographer on the wall. Through it I drifted east, wondering how Tokyo breathed at that hour, wishing—quietly—that I could vanish and arrive there.
January 2, 2026 at 12:24 PM
On New Year’s Eve I sat with friends in a small Viennese bar. Laughter moved around me, yet my eyes kept returning to a photograph by a Japanese photographer on the wall. Through it I drifted east, wondering how Tokyo breathed at that hour, wishing—quietly—that I could vanish and arrive there.
Read a thousand authors, drown in a sea of books—yet Platonov strikes like a fist to the gut, raw and unannounced. Nothing in all that literary chatter steels you for the cold, trembling life he drags across the page.
December 30, 2025 at 9:31 AM
Read a thousand authors, drown in a sea of books—yet Platonov strikes like a fist to the gut, raw and unannounced. Nothing in all that literary chatter steels you for the cold, trembling life he drags across the page.
Retarn to Dostoevsky
His book HOUSE OF THE DEAD
is not redemption but an open wound. The prison breathes, sweats, rots. God is absent, man is naked. Suffering is not lesson but noise. Freedom survives only as insult, spat through bars, alive, obscene, a scream without witness, burning.
His book HOUSE OF THE DEAD
is not redemption but an open wound. The prison breathes, sweats, rots. God is absent, man is naked. Suffering is not lesson but noise. Freedom survives only as insult, spat through bars, alive, obscene, a scream without witness, burning.
December 27, 2025 at 7:36 AM
Retarn to Dostoevsky
His book HOUSE OF THE DEAD
is not redemption but an open wound. The prison breathes, sweats, rots. God is absent, man is naked. Suffering is not lesson but noise. Freedom survives only as insult, spat through bars, alive, obscene, a scream without witness, burning.
His book HOUSE OF THE DEAD
is not redemption but an open wound. The prison breathes, sweats, rots. God is absent, man is naked. Suffering is not lesson but noise. Freedom survives only as insult, spat through bars, alive, obscene, a scream without witness, burning.
No film this year moved me like "A Girl Named Ann". It delighted and devastated in equal measure. This true story exposes a brutal truth: that parenthood is granted indiscriminately—and that this freedom can become a grave injustice, with consequences borne by the innocent.
December 24, 2025 at 9:48 PM
No film this year moved me like "A Girl Named Ann". It delighted and devastated in equal measure. This true story exposes a brutal truth: that parenthood is granted indiscriminately—and that this freedom can become a grave injustice, with consequences borne by the innocent.