I was so sorry that I would never possess anything good, anything like her, that nothing good would ever belong to me not because I was always poor in dollars but because I was poor at expressing myself one-on-one. I was as yellow as the sun perhaps but also as warm and as true as the sun somewhere there inside me but nobody would ever find it.
Charles Bukowski, The People Look Like Flowers At Last
junya watanabe spring / summer 2015
I think perfection is ugly. Somewhere in the things humans make, I want to see scars, failure, disorder, distortion.
Staircase At The University