Last Day Of June

Driving Home

This is the official Soundcloud account for UK musician Steven Wilson


main music here: @aquariusfourth

this leaves the legacy

"He was born in the wrong era, on the wrong side of the river. With the ability to be able to do anything he wants to do, and finding nothing that he wants to do."
« J'ai seul la clef de cette parade sauvage ».

The world out there is confusing and strange - and I prefer to stay in my own. 

So when we think we've escaped the unbearable ordinariness and, well, untruthfulness of our lives it's really only the same old ordinariness and falseness rearranged into the appearance of novelty and truth.

« Il était une fois un jeune prince que son père, le souverain du royaume d’Orient, avait envoyé en Égypte afin qu’il y trouve une perle. Lorsque le prince arriva, le peuple lui offrit une coupe pour étancher sa soif. En buvant, le prince oublia qu’il était fils de roi, il oublia sa quête et il sombra dans un profond sommeil… » 

The gulf between what you are with others and what you are alone. The vertigo and the constant hunger to be exposed, to be seen through, perhaps even wiped out. Every inflection and every gesture a lie, every smile a grimace.(Persona)

Nice place?
California’s like a ...
California’s like a beautiful, wild girl on heroin ...
Who's high as a kite, thinkin' she's on top of the world,
not knowing she's dying even if you show her the marks.(Rumbl fish)

" If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is : infinite"

“Every individual is at once the beneficiary and the victim of the linguistic tradition into which
he has been born - the beneficiary inasmuch as language gives access to the accumulated records of
other people's experience, the victim in so far as it confirms him in the belief that reduced awareness is
the only awareness and as it bedevils his sense of reality, so that he is all too apt to take his concepts for
data, his words for actual things. That which, in the language of religion, is called "this world" is the
universe of reduced awareness, expressed, and, as it were, petrified by language.”
― Aldous Huxley, The Doors of Perception & Heaven and Hell

Je dis qu’il faut être voyant, se faire voyant.

Le Poète se fait voyant par un long, immense et raisonné dérèglement de tous les sens. Toutes les formes d’amour, de souffrance, de folie ; il cherche lui-même, il épuise en lui tous les poisons, pour n’en garder que les quintessences. Ineffable torture où il a besoin de toute la foi, de toute la force surhumaine, où il devient entre tous le grand malade, le grand criminel, le grand maudit, — et le suprême Savant — Car il arrive à l’inconnu ! Puisqu’il a cultivé son âme, déjà riche, plus qu’aucun ! Il arrive à l’inconnu, et quand, affolé, il finirait par perdre l’intelligence de ses visions, il les a vues ! Qu’il crève dans son bondissement par les choses inouïes et innombrables : viendront d’autres horribles travailleurs ; ils commenceront par les horizons où l’autre s’est affaissé !

My gift of self is raped
My privacy is raked
And yet I find
And yet I find
Repeating in my head
If I can't be my own
I'd feel better dead