“This is What You Came For” drags you out into its unspoken syllables.
You not u. Y-o-u.
“Work” repeats work to the point it begins to sound like only a sound. “You need to get done done done done done at work / Come over / We just need to slow the motion.”
Crowds of people pressed together / I can remember your smile forever
This is one of those nights when I think lyrics have meaning. The more songs and smaller parts of those songs I listen to, the more they seem to add up to something. Break it apart and it seems to stick together. Speed up to get stuck. Stuck and not true, I know, because morning.
Is Rihanna working to play or is play work?
Reading Twitter on the toilet at work feels almost urgent. Reading Twitter on weekday mornings, the only thing that feels urgent is people’s need to tweet.
There is one paragraph here that’s more than 140 characters, and its sentences are each less. (All in the present, tense.)
“Shouldn’t I feel freaky the whole time?” one asks, and adds that “this love is gonna get me down.” One hopes.
I’ve procrastinated so long and hard that the only activity that doesn’t sound boring is work.
When people say something is “my passion”, they are bad at that something. The dream is to be passionate about work, but that’s putting the cart before the horse. Is passion what you are helpless to, or what you aspire to? “My passion” is invariably an aspiration. As opposed to that thing a spouse claims to be sick of. (Often, work.)
One doesn’t have to be bad at one’s stated passion. One can be good at something that is bad, usually bad for oneself. For example, I am good at speaking in contradictions, but the contradictions are bad, and the habit of speaking in them, exasperating.
To go anywhere you have to go nowhere. Don’t follow the links!