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our pain through others' eyes

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"the things that breathe," marya hornbacher. [
February 11th, 2014 @ 8:59pm

I walk around the house, smoothing
The paint on the walls.
It’s quarter to three in the morning.
I check the locks and sashes, check the breathing
Of the things that breathe, holding my hand
Over their mouths.

Technically, I think, I could kill them.
I could learn to kill,
Anyone could.
It wouldn't be hard.

Instead, I shut their doors one by one
Go down the hall, stand
At the top of the stairs, and fling myself down.
I fling myself again and again.

I don’t really, of course.

I am back at the top of the stairs
Undead, in my nightgown, the
Cacophony of things that breathe
roaring in my ears,
everywhere closing in.

- george r. stewart, "earth abides" [
October 26th, 2013 @ 6:11pm

“In this also we are men, that we think of the dead. Once it was not so, and when one of us died, he lay where he lay by the cave-mouth and we ran in and out there, not standing quite upright as we ran. Now we stand upright, and now also we think of the dead.

So, when the comrade lies there, we do not let him lie where he died. And we do not take him by the legs carelessly, and drag him into the forest for the foxes and woodrats to gnaw on. We do not cast him into the river carelessly for the stream to float him away.

No, but rather we lay him where the ground is hollowed out a little and there cover him with leaves and branches. So he shall return to the earth, whence all things came.

Or else we lay him to rest among the tree-branches, and give him to the air. Then, if the black birds come streaming from far to pluck at him, that too is right, for they are the creatures of the air.

Or else we give him to the bright and hot cleanliness of fire.

Then we go about our life as before, and soon we forget, like the beasts. But this at least we have done, and when we shall no longer do it, then we shall no longer be men.”

koi, by katie ford. [
October 13th, 2013 @ 9:43pm

KoiCollapse )

magnolia electric co./jason molina - hold on, magnolia [
August 3rd, 2013 @ 6:45pm

Hold on, Magnolia, to that great highway moon
No one has to be that strong
But if you’re stubborn like me
I know what you’re trying to be

Hold on, Magnolia, I hear that station bell ring
You might be holding the last light I see
Before the dark finally gets a hold of me

Hold on, Magnolia, I know what a true friend you’ve been
In my life I have had my doubts
But tonight I think I’ve worked it out with all of them

Hold on, Magnolia, to the thunder and the rain
To the lightning that has just signed my name to the bottom line

Hold on, Magnolia, I hear that lonesome whistle whine

Hold on, Magnolia, I think it's almost time...


-from 'not so far as the forest' by edna st. vincent millay [
July 28th, 2013 @ 5:21pm

"Night falls fast.
Today is in the past.

Blown from the dark hill hither to my door
Three flakes, then four
Arrive, then many more."

--from 'madness' by marya hornbacher [
July 8th, 2013 @ 4:53pm


"I put my head down on the table and cry. Because it's happened again. I'm found out. I'm damaged. Fucked up. Broken. A fraud. I knew he would figure out sooner or later that I was impossible to love. And now he has, and I love him, and I'm certain he has tried, really tried, to love me back. But trying to love me is too much for any sane person to bear. I watch their backs, one by one, as they walk away."


June 30th, 2013 @ 6:26pm

But some people can't tell where it hurts. They can't calm down. They can't ever stop howling.

-The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood


-from 'night surfing', by ken gram. [
June 27th, 2013 @ 9:13pm

"If you could have seen me.
My eyes fog, night becomes my mind,
I think of your voice in broken Spanish.

Regresame, I believe you said.
I will, but not how you'd expect."

June 12th, 2013 @ 11:52pm

"Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either; I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well."

-Anne Sexton, A Self-Portrait In Letters


just once, anne sexton. [
May 14th, 2013 @ 7:57pm

Just once I knew what life was for.
In Boston, quite suddenly, I understood;
walked there along the Charles River,
watched the lights copying themselves,
all neoned and strobe-hearted, opening
their mouths as wide as opera singers;
counted the stars, my little campaigners,
my scar daisies, and knew that I walked my love
on the night green side of it and cried
my heart to the eastbound cars and cried
my heart to the westbound cars and took
my truth across a small humped bridge
and hurried my truth, the charm of it, home
and hoarded these constants into morning
only to find them gone.

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