metafictions: Sentient sapiens believe nothing But the purity of self-hatred and The anguish of existence – stuffing For our feeble skin bags and shaking hands. We wither with age like weathered trees Both graceful and grotesque, lost in our own Incomprehensible sadness to please. It demands so much from… beautiful, celeste :) mya’s quite impressed.
He watches as I help move the furniture. The drawers in my arms are heavy, but I’m managing. His concern is almost palpable, but he’s been grumpy all day; he’s getting too old to shift these heavy boxes. “Watch yourself- the ground slopes a bit”. I know this, I’ve been walking up and down this hill all day, but I know his apprehension stems from love, so...
via cahtastofree. Seether ft. Amy Lee - Broken I...
He sags down into his chair; he’s been digging all morning. Cursing softly, he wipes his brow and gulps from his bottle. He takes off his cowboy hat and rests his head on his fist, surveying the land around him, whistling in his trademark low pitch. He doesn’t know I can see him, but he wouldn’t act any different if he did. He’s not inclined to start talking to himself, or...
…I could never do it. I’m not brave enough. I just hope that one night, it will just happen. Preferably while I sleep.
Chronicles of a School Holiday.
M: ...What did you just do?
K: Unlocked the front door.
K: Sudden urge.
M: ...Seriously, why?
K: Sudden urge!
K: I'll lock it again?
M: Please do. Do you want lunch?
K: It's five o'clock.
M: Is that a no?
K: It's a yes. Grilled cheese please.
I feel so very free tonight :) JP Sartre what were you whining about? Freedom is not nauseating, it is liberating and I am liberated and loving life and I finally have persective in the form of my grandfather who is the font of all knowledge and I will one day read all his books that are in piles on the shelves on the desks on the floor. I will one day live like he has and I will travel and see...
aadamm: Howie Day - Collide I turned my...
dreammurderer: Boum - Charles Trenet ...
moonbeams, radios and pie.
I wrote a poem ten miles long, for a yak who doesn’t read. Six million words and a terrible plot; a masterpiece indeed!
Lovers - An Army of Lovers Cannot Fail
The Moon And, like a dying lady lean and pale, Who totters forth, wrapp’d in a...– Percy B. Shelley (via forbiddenalleys)
"The Plight" by Pamela August Russel
theescapeandtheequation: Virginia Woolf put stones in her pocket and wandered off into the sea. My mother always said I have rocks in my head I wonder what will become of me?
It’s like riding a horse, except the horse is actually a hippopotamus. And...– James Lillis.
"It is not for the sawed-off imps who still...
Reading Tristan Tzara. He sounds like you do; when you’re fed up with six consecutive overcast days, and you glare at me not because you’re angry but because anger is more thrilling than the pretentious news anchor who sneers at the starving third world with sickening pink lips and gets paid for it.It reminds me of those times when you ring me as you’re walking back from the...
I could never name my child...
Dolores. It sounds too much like ‘dolorous’.
Involuntary spasms and moans await. →