January 2011
funeral:
The grief is a planet. A dust ring. A small moon that’s been hidden under my pillow, that’s been changing the way my body moves this whole time.
- The Increasing Frequency of Black Swans, Camille Rankine
serpentskirt strangerains sequoiasempervirens moonshineandroses youarebonbon
love won't save us: The Moon from Any Window by... →
ahuntersheart:
The moon from any window is one part whoever’s looking The part I can’t see is everything my sister keeps to herself. One part my dead brother’s sleepless brow, the other part the time I waste, the time I won’t have. But which is the lion killed for the sake of the honey inside him, and which the wine, stranded in a valley, unredeemed? And don’t forget the curtains....
“For ‘being’ is abstraction, as is even ‘the I’. Only I am not abstraction alone:...”
– Max Stirner (Submitted by psionic)
“I am still so naïve; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please,...”
– Sylvia Plath (via tillthemusicends)
ahuntersheart:
We hold each other freezing “In a yard a plastic deer” Doesn’t matter where We move on fumes through fumes Hospital rooms just hanging in air, some sea suspended sea, marionette-like Nature on a string Every night, we talk all night We try to remember to forget ourselves clearly We try to forget, but the sentences float They never come together, and...
