thought of the day
sometimes you won’t need to win the fight, if you win the trash-talk before the fight.
they’re DEADlines for a reason
to all of the zero people who would be interested:
DEADLINES
24 Aug – Film and History Essay 1 (500 words)
4 Sept – Film and History Essay 2 (500 words)
15 Sept – Singapore Studies Essay 1 (1,500 words)
18 Sept – Film and History Essay 3 (500 words)
1 Oct – Asian-American Lit Essay 1 (3-4 Pages)
7 Oct – 19th Century Lit Test 1
9 Oct – Film and History Essay 4 (500 words)
14 Oct – European Lit Essay 1
20 Oct – Singapore Studies Essay 2 (1,500 words)
26 Oct – 19th Century Lit Essay (3,000 words)
26 Oct – Film and History Major Essay (2,000 words)
6 Nov – European Lit Essay 2
11 Nov – 19th Century Lit Test 2
13 Nov – Film and History Essay 5 (500 words)
hip, hip…?
faustian falsehood
i’ve written at least two essays on the overreacher. i should know better.
il mondo, tonight
flawed diamonds litter my night sky,
wet west winds embrace me.
i give up, i’m leaving the thunder-clad skies, and
all that kills me is thee.
pride and perplexity
where there is no recrim’nation i would
like kubla khan, a pleasure-dome decree.
where my shimmering leprechauns would leap
in tandem with gold unicorns and pink sheep.
yet this is where the buck stops, for i
can’t muster one more ounce of strength.
incoherence juts out from the thick tome of time
like my thumb, hammered till bright lobster red.
while i crave mirages of magnificence and awe,
my slurred speech conveys none at all.
while i selfishly clutch cards to my chest,
my opponents storm peacefully out of the hall.
love-hate
“There were days when I wanted to kill her. Not to split up, which would have been the reasonable solution, but to kill her, because our relationship was so intimate and so complex and in the end so vital that murder seemed easier than separation.”
- Alberto Moravia, on the stormy relationship with his wife.
i am nothing
Where would I go, if I could go, who would I be, if I could be, what would I say, if I had a voice, who says this, saying it’s me?
- Samuel Beckett, Texts for Nothing
