Showing posts with label apocalypse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label apocalypse. Show all posts
23.3.12
1.3.12
esercizio traduzione - una favola
Molto tempo fa, il mondo finì. Ma non è finita in Inferno, invece è finito congelato nel freddo. Arrivata la neve che copriva la terra. Dopo quanti giorni più freddi, la luna e le stelle erano persi in una fitta nebbia bianca. Tutto era tranquillo sulla terra. Poi i fiumi ei laghi e il mare cominciarono a gelare. Dopo che tutto era stato silenziato, un vecchio lupo chiamato Skoll attraversò il cielo, ha aperto le mascelle e mangiò il sole. Il mondo cadde in una notte eterna, freddo, congelati e addormentati.
Ingelse qui
Ingelse qui
18.1.12
Død Kalm
From what I can tell the pictures show the end of the world. Not in a sudden firestorm of damnation as the bible teaches us, but in a slow, covering blanket of snow. First the moon and the stars will be lost in a dense white fog, then the rivers and the lakes and the sea will freeze over. And finally, a wolf named Sköll will open his jaws and eat the sun, sending the world into an everlasting night.
I think I hear the wolf at the door.
Dana Scully - The X-Files S2E19
I think I hear the wolf at the door.
Dana Scully - The X-Files S2E19
8.6.11
24.3.10
Q: WHO ARE YOU EVEN TALKING TO ANYMORE?
∝: myself, nobody. a vacant pronoun, a flaccid 'you', the vaguest addressee...
there is nothing here to rail against, but such vast forces pinning me to the sea floor. new-slowed molten seeps out my mouth and nostrils, forming islands out of congealed primordial rage. the new rock faces maintain my dumbed look, unblinking.
in the old world, i could scream and fly and spit ash and never need land. in the old world, everything burned illuminated, unconsumed.
in the new world, i lay still enough to maybe grow an olive tree, for a dove to find when i am less inhospitable; when i lay still enough to leak out a mountain to populate, billions of quiet years from now.
there is nothing here to rail against, but such vast forces pinning me to the sea floor. new-slowed molten seeps out my mouth and nostrils, forming islands out of congealed primordial rage. the new rock faces maintain my dumbed look, unblinking.
in the old world, i could scream and fly and spit ash and never need land. in the old world, everything burned illuminated, unconsumed.
in the new world, i lay still enough to maybe grow an olive tree, for a dove to find when i am less inhospitable; when i lay still enough to leak out a mountain to populate, billions of quiet years from now.
2.1.10
Fire and Ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Robert Frost
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
Robert Frost
16.12.09
12.11.09
9.8.09
and you will know me only now
by my IP address.
digital reincarnation renders one quite unrecognizable from fleshy whence-we-came, the speed of discard and re-habitation for purposes of mental outsourcing steal karmic hands from the universe-dealer now demoted to barkeep, thumb-twiddler what with reverence being ol' fashion n'all. 01101100 01100001 01110111 don't apply 'cept i makes it. we's all bandits, ain't none friends seein' how's all up for conquerin' tuh them there fellers with the dern biggest external hard drive.
showdown bang! mass hack-icide, none left alive.
identity clotheshorse-thief, who are your neighbors on such a scattered frontier? this dimension designs itself for immortality, your friends numbered voyeurs: shifty-eyed protectionist faux-lebrities with guns in their boots. remember turning the earth, the heat of the sun, the taste of another, pre-pixilation underived; obsolescence from a time before we all died and didn't notice.
the universe polishes another glass, pours a tumbler of what's passin' for drink nowadays, and sighs as the hazy RGB ghost sloshes the fermented ale of dead blogs down its gullett, 01100110011011110110000101101101 stuck to its .giff face, 56% loaded and moving jerkily. yet since all's free now, the ghost don' like to pay none and leaves only a virus on the bar, much to the instantaneous likes of the other wasteland patrons.
one too many times, thinks the universe. time, he thinks, reaching underneath the bar for the muslin-wrapped weight of the dull and ancient knife, swiftly gliding it across his throat and blinking the desolate blackness out, taking all but silence, compressing it all back into the smallest infinite mass, heavy beyond measure.
digital reincarnation renders one quite unrecognizable from fleshy whence-we-came, the speed of discard and re-habitation for purposes of mental outsourcing steal karmic hands from the universe-dealer now demoted to barkeep, thumb-twiddler what with reverence being ol' fashion n'all. 01101100 01100001 01110111 don't apply 'cept i makes it. we's all bandits, ain't none friends seein' how's all up for conquerin' tuh them there fellers with the dern biggest external hard drive.
showdown bang! mass hack-icide, none left alive.
identity clotheshorse-thief, who are your neighbors on such a scattered frontier? this dimension designs itself for immortality, your friends numbered voyeurs: shifty-eyed protectionist faux-lebrities with guns in their boots. remember turning the earth, the heat of the sun, the taste of another, pre-pixilation underived; obsolescence from a time before we all died and didn't notice.
the universe polishes another glass, pours a tumbler of what's passin' for drink nowadays, and sighs as the hazy RGB ghost sloshes the fermented ale of dead blogs down its gullett, 01100110011011110110000101101101 stuck to its .giff face, 56% loaded and moving jerkily. yet since all's free now, the ghost don' like to pay none and leaves only a virus on the bar, much to the instantaneous likes of the other wasteland patrons.
one too many times, thinks the universe. time, he thinks, reaching underneath the bar for the muslin-wrapped weight of the dull and ancient knife, swiftly gliding it across his throat and blinking the desolate blackness out, taking all but silence, compressing it all back into the smallest infinite mass, heavy beyond measure.
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