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Squandrous

@vasta / vasta.tumblr.com

I squander my time in wondrous ways.
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Ten years is enough.

I started this blog on Tumblr just over ten years ago, in April 2007, and it has been a fun ride. Today's the last day I'll be posting here, and the last day I'll be checking my Tumblr dashboard. I'll maintain the domain (squandrous.com) until it expires in a few months, and then will not be renewing it.

Thanks to everyone who made the past ten years enlightening, interesting, and fun. See you elsewhere online.

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Reveal yourself to yourself. Do not take refuge in a mirage. Do not take refuge–hell–even in your wildest, most private truth. To keep your dignity, you will first have to re-create it. Internalize it, vitalize it, tremble before it, sleep with it. You do not need to share it just yet. You merely need to feel it severely.
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I have no clue where I found this (it was sitting in my camera roll) or who wrote it, but it’s what I needed, today.

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Clocks are built: clocks have a purpose, and when they break, they can be repaired. A life is not so simple, and neither is a town. Every story hides three more, and each of those stories cover over a dozen others. Stories may be like clocks, but lives are like time: they vary depending on how you look at them, and can be measured in any number of wildly different ways, each uniquely true and utterly irreconcilable. A clock takes the vast infinity of time and makes it into a simple continuum of numbers. Like a clock, a story is a machine for excluding everything that isn’t part of it.
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For all its magnificent intricacy and beauty, the show he produced is a work of creative non-fiction, not public-interest journalism. The difference matters.
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reblogged
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quotespile
It’s because of you when I’m in bed in the morning that I can wind my spring and tell myself I have to live another good day.

Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood (via)

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April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain.

The Waste Land, T.S. Eliot

So very glad April is over. Here's to a much better May.

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I don't have memories of such bonding experiences taking place over a flat white at a Manhattan coffee shop or a $5 cup of nitro iced coffee at a Brooklyn cafe. High-end coffee doesn't usually lend itself to such moments. Instead, it's something to be fussed over and praised; you talk more about its origin and its roaster, its flavor notes and its brewing method than you talk to the person you're enjoying it with. Bad coffee is the stuff you make a full pot of on the weekends just in case some friends stop by. It's what you sip when you're alone at the mechanic's shop getting your oil change, thinking about where your life has taken you; what you nurse as you wait for a loved one to get through a tough surgery. It's the Sanka you share with an elderly great aunt while listening to her tell stories you've heard a thousand times before. Bad coffee is there for you. It is bottomless. It is perfect.

The Case for Bad Coffee, Keith Pandolfi

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reblogged

Uh holy shit

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vasta

Thinking about this a lot recently. (via)

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