The world is full with good intentions,
What is lacking is to apply them.

Blaise Pascal

Simply linking single-scale models might not work

“...The fundamental fallacy in this kind of thinking is that the reductionist hypothesis does not by any means imply a 'constructionist' one: The ability to reduce everything to simple fundamental laws does not imply the ability to start from those laws and reconstruct the universe...”

Nobel laureate, Philip Warren Anderson “More is Different”

Why the fuck haven't I heard this before?

Come on girl, put yourself together, it's Grimes after all >.<

Safe in the Harmonics of Uematsu

Dream of a musical tomb that shall cocoon the mind into an uninterrupted and black slumber, from which even the annihilation of matter won't disrupt the darkness. Lulled to a soothing sleep that will either result in a revival by fire, or a clean quiet death. An urge for the aquatic resting place at the spine of the Atlantic, beyond the black abysses and the shiny creatures to the blue ones and the dancing plants.

Dear Master of Harmonics, dearest artist to my heart, most cherished soul of my soul, creator of skin more coherent to me than my own, how do you keep on? And how do you keep on giving and everfolding?

Tell me please, grant me an answer, please.

I have been humming this poem to myself often lately

The edge of my fading memories, the far off, frozen, unreachable life,
In a crack, in the mirror that no one can hold
Seven broken dolls sing silent tears of mud
Drain the maggots’ blood in the day that will never be returned,
And pierce the eyes with the briars of a clock
That crumbled to dust within seven days,

……..

The cruel judge records the faded letters of my life..
Only a bird with broken wings can sing the truth

………

With light only silence

………

Death is frozen all the way to the edge of its molecules
While the night loves eternity,
at the same time it chops down desire with a stone axe
Drink up the pain of a brain being split open!

………

The twelve winter messengers who were washed ashore
The mirage above the piece of paper
The spent country made of glass
The corpse sings with a necklace of many, many tears on its breast
The duck’s shadow on the cliff where light has ceased to exist
Will the blameless traveler ever tell of this story?

………

When nineteen cold moons have crossed the sky
After the day of pronouncement, and the night has passed
The world will end with the rising of the sun,
What else can we do other than smash the green plate

………

The blue lamplight roams about.
In the jewel of the night, the fake empire will sink into the water…

Water-Clock

Counting even yesterday, all past time is lost time; the very day which we are now spending is shared between ourselves and death. It is not the last drop that empties the water-clock, but all that which previously has flowed out; similarly, the final hour when we cease to exist does not of itself bring death; it merely of itself completes the death-process.

Seneca