He eats rice mostly, thirty three now, and the prospect of change alludes him. The detachment from nature, a broken spirit in limbo- empty bottles and the scent of scorn. To much time in the mirror, maybe to much time, waiting and trying to run away from the feeling of failure. Beans are cheaper, it also makes him look like a vegan, just a lack of funds, and vsion. takes alot of energy protending.
The sun is now behind trees and the trees hide behind the powerlines. My tree, small as it might be still blooms each spring. I have only ghost who listen to my shoulder pain, men dont cry but purchase graves.
The temperature began to rise Monday. On Tuesday, the night, the darkness after the hot day, is
close, still, oppressive; as soon as Byron enters the house he feels the corners of his nostrils whiten
and tauten with the thick smell of the stale, mankept house. And when Hightower approaches, the
smell of plump unwashed flesh and unfresh clothing—that odor of unfastidious sedentation, of
static overflesh not often enough bathed—is well nigh overpowering. Entering, Byron thinks as he
has thought before: ‘That is his right. It may not be my way, but it is his way and his right.’ And he
remembers how once he had seemed to find the answer, as though by inspiration, divination: ‘It is
the odor of goodness. Of course it would smell bad to us that are bad and sinful.’
They sit again opposite one another in the study, the desk, the lighted lamp, between. Byron sits
again on the hard chair, his face lowered, still. His voice is sober, stubborn: the voice of a man
saying something which will be not only unpleasing, but will not be believed. “I am going to find
another place for her. A place where it will be more private. Where she can …”
Hightower watches his lowered face. “Why must she move? When she is comfortable there, with
a woman at hand if she should need one?” Byron does not answer. He sits motionless, downlooking;
his face is stubborn, still; looking at it, Hightower thinks, ‘It is because so much happens. Too much
happens. That’s it. Man performs, engenders, so much more than he can or should have to bear.
That’s how he finds that he can bear anything. That’s it. That’s what is so terrible. That he can bear
anything, anything.’ He watches Byron. “Is Mrs. Beard the only reason why she is going to move?”
Still Byron does not look up, speaking in that still, stubborn voice: “She needs a place where it
will be kind of home to her. She ain’t got a whole lot more time, and in a boarding house, where it’s
mostly just men … A room where it will be quiet when her time comes, and not every durn
horsetrader or courtjury that passes through the hallway ..
ment about their constituent parts, and into those propositions
which completely describe the complexes.
2.021 Objects form the substance of the world. Therefore they cannot
2.0211 If the world had no substance, then whether a proposition had
sense would depend on whether another proposition was true.
2.0212 It would then be impossible to form a picture of the world (true
2.022 It is clear that however different from the real one an imagined
world may be, it must have something—a form—in common
with the real world.
2.023 This fixed form consists of the objects.
2.0231 The substance of the world can only determine a form and not
any material properties. For these are first presented by the
propositions—first formed by the configuration of the objects.
2.0232 Roughly speaking: objects are colourless.
2.0233 Two objects of the same logical form are—apart from their external properties—only differentiated from one another in that
they are different.
2.02331 Either a thing has properties which no other has, and then one
can distinguish it straight away from the others by a description
and refer to it; or, on the other hand, there are several things
which have the totality of their properties in common, and then
it is quite impossible to point to any one of them.
For if a thing is not distinguished by anything, I cannot distinguish it—for otherwise it would be distinguished.
2.024 Substance is what exists independently of what is the case.
2.025 It is form and content.
2.0251 Space, time and colour (colouredness) are forms of objects.
2.026 Only if there are objects can there be a fixed form of the world.
2.027 The fixed, the existent and the object are one.
2.0271 The object is the fixed, the existent; the configuration is the
changing, the variable.
He sailed past, drifting away into the havoc of the storms edge, an upturned face following wounded eyes. the shores said.
The difference between literature and journalism is that journalism is unreadable and literature is not read.”
― Oscar Wilde, Miscellaneous Aphorisms; The Soul of Man
window's twilight A bloated sunset, the clouds spoke. the change of weather Makes you all, The log walls gaze upon me- fire through smoke on frosty days, Small breakages through winters haze. How often i think of you fluttering through darkness, galloping like wind in triumph.