Believe me what I don’t believe in is coincidence. Leaves always grow from trees. I believe in irony. There’s the first time, that’s the mistake. There’s the second time and in the middle of everything we call it all coincidence and after with hindsight irony. There’s the third time and if we have the courage to call it what it is we know it’s a pattern. The third time buries the second time in irony. Dumb horses fall in the same hole six times. But human beings are cowards, slaves to our own ideas of what we want, and it’s this cowardice that binds us unintelligent. The horse is just being a horse. It’s the man who’s being dumb. The tree of the knowledge of good and evil brought death. Meanwhile the tree of life was ignored. A predictable pattern.

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I have lost my shoes.

More accurately, or simply accurately, someone took my shoes. N. or M. and her team used the prize money from the film festival to buy three huge kegs, I think it was Yellowhead, and a box of wine, and also a very nice bottle of wine for N. or M. herself, and the party got a little raging down there just south of my old place in McKernan, and somebody left with a different pair of shoes than the shoes in which they arrived. I myself left in lavender coloured socks.

Tuxedo oxfords. Black. Calvin Klein. Size nine.

Okay but what if I just misplaced those shoes ?

Fack.

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If much is holy—and much is, I believe it, I believe—clean design is high on that mountain. Which is why I so resent the advertisements these days bannering the top of this page.

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Does anyone here think Royal Blood’s “Figure It Out” contains a lot of black light daddy stains from DFA79 but amirite rite?

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HEY GUYS MY GIRLFRIEND DIRECTED [AND BRIEFLY APPEARED] IN A SHORT FILM.

SHE AND HER TEAM ENTERED THE EDM 24HR FILM FESTIVAL.

AND WON.

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I loathe my current job. Worse than my last relationship. But just like those lost years, or, idk, theoretical dark matter, or nights, magnetic, say, above the northern hemisphere, a black accent of beauty divides the horizon, and I become the smallest, or nothing, as a previously unacknowledged truth washes over me.

I still hate my job, though.

My all time favourite constellation is the bright M of Cassiopeia.

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Because certain songs bind me to particular people, places. The brightly lit but gauzy curve of an old love’s lips. Cold wing of an airplane. A hillside, midnight, outside of the city beside Devil’s Lake, and all that blood. My brother’s hands. Lights in the harbour in Toronto, and the cobblestone streets in Montreal. Watching television together. The catgut shadow in another’s laugh. Or waking up alone in Chinatown, somebody else’s house, their life a life you no longer know. We all have these songs. Who doesn’t wake up alone in Chinatown? Perfume Genius’ “Hood" is one of those cohesions for N. or M. and myself. Maybe Cave’s "Into My Arms" is becoming another.

The new release by Perfume Genius is absolutely outstanding. 

That previous sentence means nothing. Zero forever. Believe me, though, and this is without hype, with the release of Too Bright, Michael Hadreas has created a trembling and angry god pushing, like a strange planet, into this world’s midheaven, darkening and enhancing the life of everyone who looks up to see from what disorient zenith our apocalypse falls. Blessed are the eyes which only reflect the sky.

"Matador is NOT making gold vinyl copies of this record."

Matador is speaking in mistake voices.

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