Words on love that don’t make any sense / Part one


In a village of northern Thailand, uncooked blood is mixed with chillies, salt, and lemongrass to remove the gamey flavour and served uncoagulated in a bowl. The doctor prescribes it as a cure of every undiagnosed illness. “Two times a day, until you’re addicted.” Rx.

By mistake an ancient dictionary in an ancient library is discovered. Night after night after night is spent reading it until the forbidden word is finally reached.
See also, nox.

“Dear students,” the doctor is heard addressing a classroom, “just because there is no visible injury on the body doesn’t mean the patient is fine. Sometimes the wound is inside.”
Sir what if it just cannot be found, the cause of illness, what if it doesn’t even show up on scans?
“Then I suggest you ask the patient to fall in love. It’s state of the art. A little invasive, but reveals everything.”

In an undiscovered village, cans of coca-cola are used to declare love. Addictive, fizzy, somewhat sweet, a little poisonous. Originally intended as patent medicine.


Describe it in three words:
Eternal, like Vermeer.

Someone has placed quartz crystals on a Gaelic shore at midnight to catch me like salmon.

Henri Matisse, in his lost interview from 1941, “A man who pretends to have typhoid isn’t dangerous; it’s the one who does they’re afraid of.” It’s not love unless the world is afraid.

Hello, my name is Pasolini. You must be Pino the Frog. There are no witnesses. Let’s begin.




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