Nostalgia Drive

I shout at the Universe and it whispers back. This blog is about Life, the Universe, and Everything, including (not limited to) rambles on art, literature, language, fantasy, comics, movies, anime and manga.



“When a boy…discovers that he is more given into introspection and consciousness of self than other boys his age, he easily falls into the error of believing it is because he is more mature than they. This was certainly a mistake in my case. Rather, it was because the other boys had no such need of understanding themselves as I had: they could be their natural selves, whereas I was to play a part, a fact that would require considerable understanding and study. So it was not my maturity but my sense of uneasiness, my uncertainty that was forcing me to gain control over my consciousness. Because such consciousness was simply a steppingstone to aberration and my present thinking was nothing but uncertain and haphazard guesswork.” 

Yukio Mishima, Confessions of a Mask.

I can’t wait to read this.


This bathroom in the Jacksonville airport had a bunch of signs of all different shapes of women and I think that’s pretty neat

I like to imagine that the entrance to the Crossings bathroom that Dairine hides in probably looked somewhat like this—but weirder, because they’d have to make a symbol for every “female” alien type.

(via ellenkushner)


do you know when you read a book that’s just so well written that when you finish it you can’t help but just sit there in silence for a few minutes just thinking about it, and then you reread the last couple pages, and just close the book and kind of stroke the cover in a weird sort of way and just keep thinking because it leaves such a strong impression on you that it just kinda haunts you in the back of your mind for the next few days

(via bookpillows)


By Corinne Duyvis

I am autistic.

I remember vividly a time in art school when I mentioned this to a classmate. His immediate reaction: “Ha! I’ve seen autistic people. You’re seriously not autistic.”

It didn’t matter to him that I’d had to drop out of high school the year before, at…

I’m sorry/not sorry about the sudden burst of nonsensical sound-imagery poetry tonight.

Most of it was speedily written after listening to a particular piece of music. That technique seems to work well for me.

Please do read them. Reblogs? Likes? Feedback? (Stuff like, “you used that word twice, hello!” or “this part was really poignant” ) That would be nice.


I’d give anything to read Harry Potter from Malfoy’s perspective

actually yeah

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(via lsunnyc)

These landsharks can handle truth,

thin-slicing it with silver-fine teeth

until it shrivels into slender strips

and schools collect their surfeit scraps.

Lie. Lie, lie, and lie again

to muddy the waters.

Mary kept her sheep very near at hand,

Tapping them often with the crook of her staff.

One day, some of them rose on wings

As naturally as if they had evolved that day.

She had not known them to be angels.

After that, Mary wondered

If Gentiles’ pigs could also fly.


Pious Mary took her lambs to slaughter

For Passover. Bread and butter, oil and mutton;

It made a most delicious meal.

The lame lamb stumbled into a ditch

And was abandoned, but made it home

As a zombie. It was a sweet thing before

It died, one last time, spear through the heart.

Another year her best lamb was sacrificed,

Sent to heaven to be with the Holy Ghost,

Without so much as a by-your-leave.


Mary plays in the forest with her last lamb,

And she wishes

Not to be disturbed anymore.


No rumors can reach her.

No tears can hurt her.

The still, constant contrails of airplanes

So strangely, they comfort her

Much like the flapping wings of doves.

In the department stores the marble models

Wear solid stripes, and it looks like shadow

Imprints of smoke and printed jails of light.

How must you have perceived it?

So ask yourself, what perfected you?

To wear the veil is common this season.

So do whatever you please, as you please.

Put on the beige and the gloss,

Sunglasses and a scarf, pursed lips.

It is your choice to be common;

This is your justice as you perceived it,

Your choice. Everything is as you please,

According to your dissatisfactions.

Wavering back and forth. Setting one way

And deciding again, changing the path of—steps.

Forgive me, I stumbled. I hadn’t meant you

To see that. Let me on my way, if I

Can find it, that is. Somewhere past that tree,

Oh, but that place meant something to us—to you, didn’t it?

I’m sorry. The wind swept away my feelings.

You’ll let them go, won’t you?

Don’t trust anything I say as the sun is setting.

Then I will be truthful.

You’ll see. Eventually I will contradict my words.