( me / via )

Rebound.

“The Remorse of the Dead (Remords Posthume)
(Translated from the French of Charles Pierre Baudelaire)

My sable love, when you at last are lain
Unsought upon the lone, sepulchral bed,
And darkly keep your brothel with the dead,—
Your roomless vault that weeps with fetid rain;
Yea, when the ponderous carven shaft unshaken
Is the one weight your passionate nipples know,
And grinds you down and will not let you go
To find again your faithless lechers, taken
By fairer trulls—then, then, O harlot love,
The grave, which has my very voice, will sigh
All night about your sleep-derided corse,
Whispering ever: 'In the days above,
You dreamt not how the unslumbering wantons lie,
Gnawed by the worms which are the last remorse.’ ”

—Clark Ashton Smith

"Now, if everything were to become radically other from one image to the next, it would be impossible to identify a minimal identity from panel to panel, the order of images would therefore collapse, and the comic with it: there would no longer be a world whose tale could be told."

"Most reckless things are beautiful in some way, and recklessness is what makes experimental art beautiful, just as religions are beautiful because of the strong possibility that they are founded on nothing."
—John Ashbery via @jacobwren.bsky.social

[Unused] Preface to the Book of Dallas.