I remember the whiskey and neon of those days. The sun would set at 7 pm every night over Fremont Street, and I would pretend that my childhood still stood with the El Rancho. There forever remained silver dollar-slots in my head, and the roar of a public winning the night.
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To find.

To find.

Everyone needs to talk to someone. Before we had religion and other nonsense. Now for everyone there should be someone to whom one can speak frankly, for all the valor that one could have one becomes very alone.
Ernest Hemingway, For Whom The Bell Tolls.


Roads? Where we’re going, we don’t need roads.
Doc Brown, Back to the Future.
He broke her.

He broke her.

Cool Hand Luke.

What we’ve got here is failure to communicate.


Foolish heart.

Foolish heart.

No one would take me just as I was, no one loved me; I shall love myself enough, I thought, to make up for this abandonment by everyone. Formerly, I had been quite satisfied with myself, but I had taken very little trouble to increase my self-knowledge; from now on, I would stand outside myself, watch over and observe myself; in my diary I had long conversations with myself. I was entering a world whose newness stunned me. I learned to distinguish between distress and melancholy, lack of emotion and serenity; I learned to recognize the hesitations of the heart, and its ecstasies, the splendor of great renunciations, and the subterranean murmurings of hope. I entered into exalted trances, as on those evenings when I used to gaze upon the sky full of moving clouds behind the distant blue of the hills; I was both the landscape and its beholder: I existed only through myself, and for myself… My path was clearly marked: I had to perfect, enrich and express myself in a work of art that would help others to live.
Simone de Beauvoir.
Just ordered this.

Just ordered this.

Miss Atomic Bomb.

All that I wanted was a little touch
A little tenderness and truth, I didn’t ask for much, no
Talk about being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Radio on.

Radio on.

So accurate right now.

Hemingway’s recipe for burgers.

Hemingway’s recipe for burgers.

Anger was washed away in the river along with any obligation.
Ernest Hemingway.