wet biscuit mcglee

we are all the idiot, and the bear is time.

Literature was born not the day when a boy crying wolf, wolf came running out of the Neanderthal valley with a big gray wolf at his heels: literature was born on the day when a boy came crying wolf, wolf and there was no wolf behind him. That the poor little fellow because he lied too often was finally eaten up by a real beast is quite incidental. But here is what is important. Between the wolf in the tall grass and the wolf in the tall story there is a shimmering go-between. That go-between, that prism, is the art of literature.

Vladimir Nabokov (via emungere)

In the past three days I have a) accidentally stabbed myself in the head with a knitting needle and b) discovered that my study music appears to be Karmin, what the hell