June 2013
“I am incapable of understanding your actions. You eat porridge one day and muesli the next. You tell me you love me, but your voice is hollow and I have trouble hearing it through the many scarves which muffle your voice. Warm, warm, keep warm. You try to keep me warm, but I refuse. I kick off the blankets in my sleep, dreaming of freedom-painted fabric, and liberty bells. What is war? – I ask, and the conversation turns urgent. We gesticulate wildly, but our voices never exceed four. They are hushed, but you tell me everything that is wrong with the world and I tell you the same thing, looking into a mirror on my left. All this is, is intrigue and wild gesticulations and sweeping statements, urgent conversations behind the lampshade, reaching for a conclusion but finding only thin air.”
—Deborah Wu (via spinals)
