Carly Rose

24

[dailykafka]

— January 25, 1922 | Franz Kafka diaries

[latibule-e-deactivated20231012]

— Clarice Lispector, from “The Stream of Life.”

[latibule-e-deactivated20231012]

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a letter to Arthur Davison Ficke

[slipping-into-madness]

[weltenwellen]

Franny Choi, from “Catastrophe is Next to Godliness”

[goreprofonde]

- Luther Hughes, Winter, Extended.

[typewriter-worries]

[ Text ID: I had not known then how bad / I wanted his lips to be my grave. ]

[prole-log]

[quotemadness]

“Stop being tormented by everyone else’s reaction to you.”

— Joyce Meyer

[carlyrollsroyce]

[chandelyer-deactivated20241003]

Top 5 gowns of 2022 as voted by my followers: Halpern spring 2023 in 5th place

[robynneweaver1357]

isn't sleeping supposed to cure the tired sleepy? and yet

[taiyoufu-deactivated20230521]

This man can't be fixed. I can fuck him though. Maybe that will calm him down.

[effemimaniac]

[antigonick]

“there are, on this planet alone, something like two million naturally occurring sweet things, some with names so gorgeous as to kick the steel from my knees: agave, persimmon, stick ball, the purple okra I bought for two bucks at the market. Think of that. The long night, the skeleton in the mirror, the man behind me on the bus taking notes, yeah, yeah. But look; my niece is running through a field calling my name. My neighbor sings like an angel and at the end of my block is a basketball court. I remember. My color’s green. I’m spring.”

— Ross Gay, excerpt of “Sorrow Is Not My Name”, in Bringing the Shovel Down

[store-brand-persephone]

'Living lividity', Persy

[store-brand-persephone]

[text ID: ‘Living lividity'

Squares and rectangles. No dead thing is alive, but to be alive is to be already dead. That’s what the mushrooms tell me when I fry them, egg yolk, egg white and breadcrumbs. Doesn’t it comfort you, they ask as I eat them. Your flesh and bone will return where it belongs, but for now, the dead are walking, but for now there is the machinery. Look, it’s so glorious,

this interlude

when we exchange our death between us to learn about the light. It’s a miracle, a scream in silence, ripples on the water. In this vastness, that’s the only thing worth everything, to eat your troubles, to kiss the electrified structure of your friend’s body goodnight.

See, the tree that’ll make a coffin for you is growing in the darkness of the first winter night. It’s cold, but touched by our spindly fingers, and yours, across time, across the road from where the spark in the ignition of a car that someone you love drives caught you on fire. The things you desire might still find you. The wheels are turning, something is burning and your death is here, in your stomach, in your heart, in your entire bloodline, vibrating with a kick into action. Give in. Take that respite from indifference. As long as you know what shape to call your grave.

/end ID]

[facinaoris]

Come the Slumberless To the Land of Nod, Traci Brimhall

[kennethtompkins]

Hua Liu

Untitled No.17