But keep on focusing on those sick Peruvians. That's right, Hollywood. That's right your George Harrison Fords, your Tobey Aguirre Wrath of Wistful Thinking--the meteor space virus is going to kill us all! WRITE YOUR SCREENPLAYS, MOTHERFUQUERS!
Dima's shit fumes is my story. If anybody else takes Dima's story, i'll...well...I don't know what I'll do. (Up to but not including bodily harm to whomever or whatever. Why is there no object/subject pronoun for things?)
“…it’s hard to resist your own substance, you’d like to stop all this, give yourself time to think about it and listen without difficulty to your heartbeat, but it’s too late for that. This thing can never stop. This enormous steel box is on a collision course; we, inside it, are whirling madly with the machines and the Earth. All together, along with the thousands of little wheels and hammers that never strike at the same time, that make noises which shatter one another, some so violent that they release a kind of silence around them, which makes you feel a little better. You give into noise as you give in to war. As the machines you let yourself go with the two three ideas that are wobbling about at the top of your head. And that’s the end. From then on everything you look at, everything you touch is hard. And everything you still manage to remember more or less becomes as rigid as iron and loses its savor in your thoughts.” Celine, Journey to the End of the Night
“It’s not that I like the empire—I hate it—but there’s nothing I can do about it right now.” Luke Skywalker, Star Wars
