— Ambrose: On the Death of Theodosius
I don’t want good and I don’t want good enough, I want can’t sleep can’t breathe without your love. Front porch and one more kiss, it doesn’t make sense to anybody else. Who cares if you’re all I think about? I’ve searched the world and I know now: it ain’t right if you ain’t lost your mind. I don’t want easy I want crazy
Interesting to look back on a post I made over a year ago, here, in which I mention Schleiermacher. Truthfully, I now remember that found his name in efforts to learn about a German philosopher that my Montserrat professor mentioned in class that week. I stumbled upon him purely by accident. I ended up reading a great deal of Schleiermacher this semester in my Theological Aesthetics seminar, all the while forgetting how he had initially piqued my interest. I guess it’s funny that I had really wanted to learn about him and I unwittingly did so, although perhaps I wish it had been more deliberate.
Softly tread the sand below your feet now
I have lost my integrity. One failed—I should like to blame you, however the fault is mostly mine—and another that rides unremittingly toward disaster. You have unhinged me. I am worn beyond my nerves: no longer aware of the sensuous bonds I once shared with the world—those bonds that were guides of my actions, but ever able to steal into the cold, unfeeling shell. Mere tissue glued together by nothing. But I can listen to Mozart now. Can you imagine that?
You don’t think I’m fucking brilliant.
Have I learned nothing from my readings and from my past? Back burns, the answer, no.