It is the start of the year 2000, and something is wrong.
Husbands and wives wake up next to each other, scared. They don’t know who the person in the bed with them is. Who is this person? Why are they in my house? Is this my house? Is this their house?
They go out to investigate. A five-year-old child uses a Windows 98 computer in the living room. The child turns around, and asks, “Is it time for me to go to school, mommy?”
The world is in panic. The President of the United States, who awoke in the Oval Office with no knowledge of being elected, calls for a large-scale investigation.
After weeks of asking adults and children alike what is going on, and looking at the various public records, they realize that the children are not confused at all. The adults can only remember what last happened in 1989. However, the children that can speak say that they were born anywhere from 1991 to 1996. Public officials can only draw one conclusion.
To every adult, the 1990s never happened. The children, however, cannot have come from nowhere.
It doesn’t take long after this conclusion for them to realize that only 90s kids remember the 90s.
I traveled for one month around California and I swear I saw the most breathtaking landscapes. It was a great experience to explorer new places, to try the local food and to meet new people. I got lucky enough to grab a few stills and I’m still working on a video.
(Source: soniafelizv)
Live where you fear to live.
Destroy your reputation.
Be notorious.
Dr. Dog — Be The Void
Tuxedos//Cold War Kids//Dear Miss Lonelyhearts
***Cold War Kids tonight at the Neptune
(Source: transparalyze)
Damn. Spot-on.
wow that is accurate
i need to go cry for a few hours now
(Source: thentheysaidburnher)
Beautiful mixed media portraits collaged with comic book pages!
It would be easier
to bury our dead
at the corner lot.
No need to wake
before sunrise,
take three buses,
walk two blocks,
search at the rear
of the cemetery,
to come upon the familiar names
with wilted flowers and patience.
But now I am here again.
After so many years
of coming here,
passing the sealed mausoleums,
the pretentious brooks and springs,
the white, sturdy limestone crosses,
the pattern of the place is clear to me.
I am going back to the Black limbo,
an unwritten history
of our own tensions.
The dead lie here
in a hierarchy of small defeats.
I can almost see the leaders smile,
ashamed now of standing
at the head of those
who lie tangled
at the edge of the cemetery
still ready to curse and rage
as I do.
Here, I stop by the imitative cross
of one who stocked his parlor
with pictures of Robeson,
and would boom down the days,
dreaming of Othello’s robes.
I say he never bothered me,
and forgive his frightened singing.
Here, I stop by the simple mound
of a woman who taught me
spelling on the sly,
parsing my tongue
to make me fit for her own dreams.
I could go on all day,
unhappily recognizing small heroes,
discontent with finding them here,
reproaches to my own failings.
Uneasy, I search the names
and simple mounds I call my own,
abruptly drop my wilted flowers,
and turn for home.
