(via washington post on youtube)
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AnasAbdin
cherry valley forever
Not today Justin
I'd rather be in outer space đ¸

oozey mess
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
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@humorzo
(via washington post on youtube)
âIs this the best thing ever or is it opening some weird door we canât shut?
Americaâs ongoing struggle to engage with the basic humanity of women
There is a bitter fight going on right now for middle-aged douchey white men to regain power and control and that is going on at all levels of society
Victorian Women Mountaineers.Â
Love was the greatest thing, wasnât it?
Ernest Hemingway, To Have and Have Not, 1937
The talent of Philip Roth floats freely in this rampaging novel with a plot thick as starlings winging to a tree and then flying off again.
Elizabeth Hardwick, New York Review, June 1997
In a morning fog on Wednesday â at 9:45 a.m. to be precise, according to a tweet by the California Department of Public Transportation â the piece of the road at Mud Creek, south of the Big Sur region, that had cut off so many travelers, was reopened. The most famous California road trip was back on.
New York Times
Many seabirds navigate by smell, mapping the oceans by the distinctive fumes that come off krill and other microscopic food sources. The same chemical signature is attached to pieces of plastic that has been in the sea for a while, which is why seabirds die from eating plastic. Theyâre not stupid; it just smells like their food.
Kate Macdonald
(via washington post on youtube)
Not anymore.
I'm sixty eight,â he said, âI first bucked hay when I was seventeen. I thought, that day I started, I sure would hate to do this all my life. And dammit, that's just what I've gone and done.
from Hay For The Horses  Riprap,1959
She had told him that she was not a virgin. But that turned out to be a complicated half-truth, owing to the interference of a piano teacher, when she was fifteen. She had gone along with what the piano teacher wanted because she felt sorry for people who wanted things so badly.
from Corrie, by Alice Munro
Things arenât like that. They stay, their little particular lusters Warmed by much handling. They almost purr.
from sylvia plath late poem, Â âlast wordsâ
Over my head I see the bronze butterfly Asleep on the black trunk, Blowing like a leaf in green shadow. Down the ravine, behind the empty house, The cowbells follow one another Into the distances of the afternoon. To my right, In a field of sunlight between two pines, The droppings of last yearâs horses Blaze up like golden stones. I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on. A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home. I have wasted my life.
âLying in a Hammock at William Duffyâs Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota,â James Merrill