军烨/蓝宇

——所以说这个算写文用的小号,大号是tumblr的?嗯,大概。
不撕。

前两个月上课时的随手涂。

limitless, abstract, almost future,
the dead man is not a dead man: he is death.
Like the God of the mystics,
of Whom anything that could be said must be denied,
the dead one, alien everywhere,
is but the ruin and absence of the world.
We rob him of everything,
we leave him not so much as a color or syllable:
here, the courtyard which his eyes no longer see,
there, the sidewalk where his hope lay in wait.
Even what we are thinking,
he could be thinking
— Jorge Luis Borges, Remorse for Any Death

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