Stuck by this river

Time flies like the crow does/No regard for the grid/_ ___'_ ___ ___ __ ____ ____/___ _____ __ ____ ___ __ ___ ___ ?

[maquina-semiotica]

“ Until Daylight Comes”, The Avalanches

[soracities]

Charles Wright, from "The Southern Cross", The World of Ten Thousand Things: Poems 1980-1990 [ID'd]

[childsacrifice]

(no beers in) So how do you perceive me in the privacy of your thoughts

[cannibalings]

have you reopened the wound? will you reopen the wound? when will you reopen the wound?

[huariqueje]

Untitled - Karin Kneffel , 2010.

German, b. 1957 -

Oil on canvas ,  180 x 300 cm.

[litandlifequotes]

How could a sky so full of blue feel so empty?

Sometimes A Great Notion by Ken Kesey

[mrsterlingeverything]

Creates a special glue that tries to keep us together in a world that wants to pull us apart

[minotauri]

[louder than everyone] MAN I THINK IT DEPENDS!

[briannyssey]

Oh easy mistake. Yearning actually rises from the floor and longing hangs from the ceiling

[briannyssey]

🥺🥺

[gumy-shark]

playing stupid games but im really bad at them so im not even winning the stupid prizes

[gingik]

[wintersongstress]

wilf (wip i’d like to finish)

[philcollinsenjoyer]

explained to an 8 year old that once a fruit is ripe you only have so much time until it rots so you have to eat it soon and she said so i'll never be able to keep it perfect like this forever? no and there are about a million pieces of art for you unrelatedly

[jadafitch]

HAPPY NATIONAL MOTH WEEK! Celebrate with moth art! Moths of North America poster Saturniid Moths of North America poster

[hitku]

Frog, Flooded Field, by Lucy Newton

[codes-and-stuffs]

i do think we should normalise being like. platonically enamoured with someone. perhaps i love and admire you dearly and there's nothing romantic about it

[aliteraryprincess]

If someone spoke to me, there would be time, the beginning and end of what they said to me, the moment when I answered, their response. The briefest conversation creates time. Perhaps I have tried to create time through writing these pages. I begin, I fill them with words, I pile them up, and I still don’t exist because nobody is reading them. I am writing them for some unknown reader who will probably never come—I am not even sure that humanity has survived that mysterious event that governed my life. But if that person comes, they will read them and I will have a time in their mind. They will have my thoughts in them. The reader and I thus mingled will constitute something living, that will not be me, because I will be dead, and will not be that person as they were before reading, because my story, added to their mind, will then become part of their thinking. I will only be truly dead if nobody ever comes, if the centuries, then the millennia go by for so long that this planet, which I no longer believe is Earth, no longer exists. As long as the sheets of paper covered in my handwriting lie on this table, I can become a reality in someone’s mind. Then everything will be obliterated, the suns will burn out and I will disappear like the universe.

Jacqueline Harpman, I Who Have Never Known Men