It’s my brother’s blood on a cherry tree
It stains the bark from branch to root
It puddles thick with pits and leaves
It strains the sweetness from the fruit
Child, I Will Hurt You - Crystal Castles
if i was a different kind of guy
i’d write you a song with a hook that’s like
“oh my god
i’m falling in love”
Therefore: not to cry over oneself. (But does one ever do this? Does one ever do anything but this? That is the question that quivers in every tear, deploration or imploration itself.)
One should not develop a taste for mourning, and yet mourn we must.
We must, but we must not like it—mourning, that is, mourning itself, if such a thing exists: not to like or love through one’s own tear but only through the other, and every tear is from the other, the friend, the living, as long as we ourselves are living, reminding us, in holding life, to hold on to it.
written by The Taste of Tears, Derrida
SPOOKY BLACK// without u