words

"She lives in the poetry she cannot write."

[intactics-deactivated20250505]

what Work is the most important? the work you have to do next. narrow the scope of focus down to that singular glittering point.

[sisyphusshrugged]

How to get out of a rut

[farmgf]

IT’S SPRINGTIME YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS. PASS THE INSTRUCTIONS ON NOT GIVING UP BY ADA LIMÓN

[farmgf]

IT’S THE GREENING OF THE TREES THAT REALLY GETS TO ME!!!!!!!!!!!

[yesyes]

“Cities are smells: Acre is the smell of iodine and spices. Haifa is the smell of pine and wrinkled sheets. Moscow is the smell of vodka on ice. Cairo is the smell of mango and ginger. Beirut is the smell of the sun, sea, smoke, and lemons. Paris is the smell of fresh bread, cheese, and derivations of enchantment. Damascus is the smell of jasmine and dried fruit. Tunis is the smell of night musk and salt. Rabat is the smell of henna, incense and honey. A city that cannot be known by its smell is unreliable. Exiles have a shared smell: the smell of longing for something else; a smell that remembers another smell. A painting, nostalgic that guides you, like a worn tourist map, to the smell of the original place. A smell is a memory and a setting sun. Sunset, here, is beauty rebuking the stranger. But to love the sunset is not, as they say, one of the attributes of exile.”

— Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence

[jondrettegirls]

Oresteia by Robert Icke | The Aeneid by Vergil (Tr. Shadi Bartsch) | It’s a Quality of the Gods by Suniti Namjoshi

[weltenwellen]

Rilke Rainer Maria, Book of Hours

[gunmetallic]

⸺ on soulmates and suffering.

Fyodor Dostoevsky // via tullipsink // Faiz Ahmed Faiz // Margaret Atwood // sam sax // Mary Shelley. also see: soulmate (horror)

[metamorphesque]

Perhaps the World Ends Here, Joy Harjo

[ivynightshade]

fatima aamer bilal, excerpt from moony moonless sky’s ‘i am an observer, but not by choice.’

[text id: my fist has always been clenched around the handle of an invisible suitcase. / i am always ready to leave. / there is not a single room in this world where i belong.]

[watchoutforintellect]

“Tonight I love you on a spring evening. I love you with the window open. You are mine, and things are mine, and my love alters the things around me and the things around me alter my love.”

— Jean Paul Sartre - from a letter to Simone de Beauvoir

[metamorphesque]

"Sweeter than living ...", Vahan Teryan (translated by metamorphesque)

[twoweeks]

“But in the end, stories are about one person saying to another: This is the way it feels to me. Can you understand what I’m saying? Does it feel this way to you?”

— Kazuo Ishiguro, in his Nobel prize (2017) acceptance speech.   (via smiththeteacher)

[weltenwellen]

Didi Jackson, from "Poem With the Last Line as the First"

[wovi]

lovers, of course, are notoriously frantic epistemologists, second only to paranoiacs (and analysts) as readers of signs and wonders.

*

adam phillips, on flirtation

[geryone]

Orestes by Euripides (Translated by Anne Carson) from An Oresteia

[nicetryofficer-deactivated20230]

[gentlytamping]

Brendan Joyce

[ryebreadgf]

‘Can I Get Over My Debilitating Social Anxiety?’ by J.P. Brammer

[wovi]

*

melissa broder, milk fed