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BLOOD ORANGE:

SUTPHIN BOULEVARD

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STARS OF THE LID:

TIPPY’S DEMISE

RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER: LOLA

RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER: LOLA

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A THOUSAND SMOLDERING SONS:

THE BIRTH OF THE GREAT WHIRLING HYPERFETUS

[Link]

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EMERALDS

CANDY SHOPPE

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PURITY RING: UNGIRTHED

Album June 24.

8. Children. When we have worked our way through all the other liberation movements, we may discover that children are the most oppressed section of the population (unfortunately, we cannot expect to liberate our children until we have successfully liberated ourselves). Most clearly of all, the “otherness” of children is that which is repressed within ourselves, its expression therefore hated in others: what the previous generation repressed in us, and what we, in turn, repress in our children, seeking to mold them into replicas of ourselves, perpetuators of a discredited tradition.

ROBIN WOOD, AN INTRODUCTION TO THE AMERICAN HORROR FILM
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FORSS: VOCA NOMEN TUUM

Some love; and here.

Album June 12.

AGNIESZKA WOJTOWICZ-VOSLOO:
AFTER.LIFE

AGNIESZKA WOJTOWICZ-VOSLOO:

AFTER.LIFE

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DJ KRUSH: 

NO COMPETITION

And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the labor drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret; for the painter had grown wild with the ardor of his work, and turned his eyes from canvas merely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sat beside him. And when many weeks had passed, and but little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given, and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought; but in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, ‘This is indeed Life itself!’ turned suddenly to regard his beloved—she was dead!

EDGAR ALLEN POE, “THE OVAL PORTRAIT”
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OFWGKTA: 

YA KNOW (FEAT. THE INTERNET)

CARL THEODORE DREYER:

THE PASSION OF JOAN OF ARC

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LANA DEL REY: VIDEO GAMES

(BALAM ACAB REMIX)

We are tired; we have no time. And here we return to the subject of clocks. The perception that we have no time is one of the distinctive marks of modern Western culture, a precondition of our social system as much as it is a result of it. No time is used as an excuse and also a spur: it both goads and constrains us, much as honor and shame did for the ancient Greeks. Time, having been rendered scarce, remains abstract, quantitative, unconnected with ourselves as persons—as amoral and unarguable as fate. It exerts pressure on each person as an individual (each of us obediently wears that watch). The feeling that we have no time escapes explanation and censure through claims that it is a condition created entirely out of our good fortune. We have no time apparently because modern life offers so many pleasures, so many choices, that we cannot resist trying enough of them to use up all the time we have been allotted. We are induced—in this case by a battery of constant distractions—actually to enjoy having no time. It is, after all, the people considered the most important among us who seem to have the least time; there is enormous prestige attached to keeping a great many balls in the air at once.

MARGARET VISSER, BEYOND FATE