ventichailatte

Get lost with me in the city of the soul, where we can have a feast for all our senses. Take me back to Rome.

Reminscing London, all covered in snow.

I’m not a fan of cold winter days, but snow never fails to put a big childish grin on my face. I will never forget the carefree day I had when London finally responded to my cries. Thank you, London, for nursing me albeit only for a day.

Fuck you, by Marion Peck.

Doodling on my notebook. I was going for simplicity and a childlike character hence the haphazard spray paint. If only I had my unlined moleskine. I don’t know where it went to - perhaps it decided to go travelling because I bored it with depressing thoughts.

Whenever I’m overwhelmed, one of my routines include hopping on the District line to South Kensington (two stops away from where I lived) for a frozen yoghurt at SNOG. My usual orders: Natural with mango bits and strawberries or Green Tea with mochi. Instant pick me up! Visits to SNOG would probably be one of the many things I’ll miss about London.

I fancy a snog. Right now.

Two of my favourite clips from Crash.

“It’s okay, daddy. I’ll protect you.”

Is this tunnel - this poisoned darkness - really not the end?

"Thinking is a man’s only basic virtue, from which all the others proceed. And his basic vice, the source of all his evils, is that nameless act which all of you practice, but struggle never to admit: the act of blanking out, the willfull suspension of one’s consciousness, the refusal to think - not blindness, but the refusal to see; not ignorance but the refusal to know. It is the act of unfocusing your mind and inducing an inner fog to escape the responsibility of judgement - on the unstated premise that a thing will not exist if only you refuse to identify it, that A will not be A so long as you do not pronounce the verdict ‘it is.’ Non-thinking is an act of annihilation, a wish to negate existence, an attempt to wipe out reality…"

— Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand

The battle.

When we live in between dreams and reality, we lose ourselves. Our journey will never be complete. So now the question is, “Who will emerge victorious?”

The triumphant hymn can only be played for one: either practicality, or passion.

Awake from your slumber, arise from your sleep. A new day is dawning for all those who weep.

"Desire and
All the sweet pulsing aches
And gentle hurtings
That were you
Are gone into the sullen dark.
Now in the night you come unsmiling
To lie with me.
A dull, cold, rigid bayonet
On my hot-swollen throbbing soul."

— Killed Paive, Ernest Hemingway

ventichailatte

Reminscing London, all covered in snow.

The battle.

"Desire and All the sweet pulsing aches And gentle hurtings That were you Are gone into the sullen dark. Now in the night you come unsmiling To lie with me. A dull, cold, rigid bayonet On my hot-swollen throbbing soul."

"Desire and
All the sweet pulsing aches
And gentle hurtings
That were you
Are gone into the sullen dark.
Now in the night you come unsmiling
To lie with me.
A dull, cold, rigid bayonet
On my hot-swollen throbbing soul."