“In philosophy the race goes to the one who can run slowest — the one who crosses the finish line last.”
— Ludwig Wittgenstein, Culture and Value
“Poetry is a game of loser-take-all.” -Jean-Luc Godard
taylor price
No title available
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

izzy's playlists!
Peter Solarz
$LAYYYTER
Jules of Nature
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

tannertan36

PR's Tumblrdome
tumblr dot com
Sade Olutola
Game of Thrones Daily
RMH

ellievsbear
AnasAbdin
NASA

No title available
wallacepolsom
seen from Costa Rica
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States

seen from China

seen from Türkiye

seen from Canada
seen from Netherlands

seen from Costa Rica
seen from United States

seen from Netherlands

seen from Malaysia

seen from Germany

seen from Malaysia

seen from T1

seen from Saudi Arabia

seen from Malaysia
seen from Lithuania

seen from Malaysia

seen from Argentina
seen from France
@nantes
“In philosophy the race goes to the one who can run slowest — the one who crosses the finish line last.”
— Ludwig Wittgenstein, Culture and Value
“Poetry is a game of loser-take-all.” -Jean-Luc Godard
The Doubling of Self: An Interview with Richard Siken by Peter Mishler
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there. And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of. It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off. For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,
I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it. Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass, say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless: I am living. I remember you.
- What The Living Do, Marie Howe
What can I do with my happiness? How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it? I want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again.
— Anaïs Nin, Henry & June.
The purpose of poetry is to remind us how difficult it is to remain just one person, for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors, and invisible guests come in and out at will.
—Czeslaw Milosz, from "Ars Poetica?"
"One of the things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now."
― Annie Dillard
Aase Berg, With Deer, trans. Johannes Göransson
When a writer is born into a family, the family is finished.
- Czeslaw Milosz.
Christian Schad, Sonja, 1928
Hello.
i splatter pain & i am worthy. i am worthy.
Lahraeb Munir, from “premonitions of sad creations,” concave in a convex heart (via lifeinpoetry)