The quality that we call beauty ... must always grow from the realities of life.





Censored By Confucius

My last night in Daikanyama, window open,  rain on concrete.  I’m laying in bed playing back the memories of Himari, the past 24 days in Tokyo but mostly the four spent with her.  I desperately tried to think of anything else. I had six more hours to kill before I was to board the train back to Hanada Airport.   The city was excruciating quiet not even a god damn car horn to be heard in a city of ten million people...Nothing... Not once in the five minutes have that have gone by and not a single car horn to tell me someone is alive outside this tiny box of an apartment;  a suicide apartment what I was told by one of the neighbors who saw me when the first day I moved in and realize he had someone to practice his English with.  Half price of it’s surrounding apartments he told with an anxious grin.  Such luxury to see a ghost with a belt around his neck and an erected massive dick in hand for a fraction of the price, I thought.
She had left standing dumbfounded without words between us at Shibuya Station earlier that day. We had made plans the day before to have dinner and visit a couple of shops it was the 5th day I was supposed to see her in a row.   The moment I saw her I could tell something was wrong a whirlwind of emotions cascaded down through her face, her delicate skin had redness that I knew the world around me and my emotions would come crashing down. I stood there not approaching her for a few seconds. She turned and in a flash headed back towards the train station leaving me the memory of her black Mary Jane’s.
I knew what she was feeling that pain that centers in the pits of each of us an emotional furnace that comes roaring on in the lonely nights of our winters when someone you feel so close to and share such intimate moments with you is gone leaving you hallow and meaningless.    
I will remember her gentle kisses the ones I’ll share with the cricket that sits on the window sill of my nursery.  As he’ll clap attentively with his feet for more.

  Johannes Itten

The Cubists want to cover Dada with snow; that may surprise you, but it is so, they want to empty the snow from their pipe to bury DaDa.

Are you sure?

Positively sure, the facts are revealed by grotesque mouths. They think that Dada can prevent them from practicing this odious trade: Selling art expensively.
Art costs more than sausages, more than women, more than everything.

Art is visible like God (see Saint-Sulpice).

Art is a pharmaceutical product for imbeciles.

The table turns thanks to spirit; the paintings and other works of arts are like strong-box tables, the spirit is inside and becomes more and more inspired according to the auction prices.

Farce, farce, farce, farce, farce, my dear friends.