Floating, Thinking

Knock before you come in. Be decent. Take a kiss for the road. 26 MDNI.

[likemonalisa]

Megan Thee Stallion, Entrepreneur Magazine, 2026

[requiem-on-water]

“Ice Bed” off Norway’s Svalbard archipelago by Nima Sarikhani

[boulevard-of-fame]

Marilyn

[hissiznota]

[glassbonespaperskin]

[cadetn3]

[fuckingfreud]

[weltenwellen]

Franny Choi, from "I Guess By Now I Thought I’d Be Done With Shame"

[luthienne]

Franz Wright, from God's Silence; "East Boston, 1996"

[Text ID: Walking home, for a moment / you almost believe you could start again. / And an intense love rushes to your heart, / and hope. It's unendurable, unendurable.]

[nixscriptum]

[signedthemoon]

— isa b. excerpt from my journal

[grundoonmgnx]

Lindsay Merrill (American b. 1987), Untitled, 2026

Oil on canvas, 41 ⅞ x 55 ⅞ in

[katgecs]

bavaria

[acuranostalgia]

[twohousesoftheholy]

It took a year for me to starve

To death

For the taste of her

I survived

On only the thought of her eyes

She flowed translucent

Into my rooms

As gossamer

Her silver dress flowing like mercury

Melting my eyes like an off world

Volcano exploding

Her scent a scalpel

Slicing apart the present I half as a memory

When I tell you she devoured

With a hunger so massive as to be unattainable, unsustainable

I underestimate, not have the gifts of

A poet

Those eyes the stay in my mind

Make me feel a squatter in a mansion

While my mind is only her trailer

She wants to go

Her lips say so

In the thousand wettest of ways

So she goes

I let her

She will wander back

Through my mind

It’s her playground though she’s far from a child

So she goes

I let every death takes its course

It’s been a year now

Since hunger took hold

I wait it’s abate

I know she will return

To a world without seed

Making no errors

Take my hand

Hold my sonnet

Hear my song

Bring some roses

To a world that’s met it’s rain

[withnailrules]

“When I go away from you The world beats dead Like a slackened drum. I call out for you against the jutted stars And shout into the ridges of the wind. Streets coming fast, One after the other, Wedge you away from me, And the lamps of the city prick my eyes So that I can no longer see your face. Why should I leave you, To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?”

—  The Taxi by Amy Lowell, 1917

[withnailrules]

Pier Angeli photographed by Allan Grant for LIFE magazine, 1954