sorry i can’t go out tonight i’m at home sitting down
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
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祝日 / Permanent Vacation

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@tinytwentyone
sorry i can’t go out tonight i’m at home sitting down
do not go gentle into that good night
be a bit of a bitch about it
can't in good conscience leave this out
i’m so sorry if this is a bother/ stupid but. i love your writing for so so so long and a lot of what you’ve been writing about recently breaks my heart — firstly because im sorry you had to go through what sounds like such an awful relationship, especially when your words, and thereby, if you don’t mind my overstepping, your soul, is so beautiful.
i’m writing because i think one of my best friends is in a similar relationship to the one you’ve described in your poems. at best i don’t think she’s happy in the relationship. at worst i’m worried she might be being hit. i don’t know what to do. what would you have wanted a friend to do in your situation?
please don’t feel obligated to answer this, i just figured i’d ask xx
this is such a hard and careful question to have. it makes me sick to think that at some point, my friends were in the same situation.
the short answer is that you need to be there for them, to the best of your ability, possibly over a long period of time. possibly this might mean they act out in an unusually cruel way; or they might put a huge amount of distance between the two of you; or they might complain about their situation endlessly but never seem to "do" anything.
it is hard, because i cannot recommend you put yourself at risk. and i had friends who put themselves at risk for my benefit. i had them gently try to tell me, over and over - something isn't right here. these are friendships i'd had for many, many years - 5 or more - so most of my friends knew i was acting out of character. i don't know if it's fair to ask newer friends to do this same amount of risk-taking. i'm not a therapist and i don't know the situation you're in specifically.
but my advice is under the cut, to the best of my ability.
there is still time. there is still time. until your bones are in the fucking ground there is still time.
Fleabag (2016) // @symbiocene // Charles M. Schulz, Peanuts // Nikki Giovanni, Mirrors // cave painting // 肉包不吃肉, The Husky and His White Cat Shizun // thethingswesay.com // Brian Kershiznik // Neal A. Maxwell // Audre Lorde, "Equinox"
I used the phrase "waiting on tenterhooks" and then thought "what the hell is a tenterhook".
It's these things! So when you're waiting on tenterhooks, you're stretched tight like a piece of cloth. Very evocative, now that I know what it means.
like 40% of english idioms are just Textiles Again
official linguistics post
never kill yourself because who knows if guillermo del toro will make a film that stares straight into your soul and says "i see you, i understand you, and the cycle of violence can end" and you will leave a theater sobbing with hope
a year ago i had this dream like an omen. i saw myself opened under the stained glass light of my childhood church. my insides had turned into flowers, and i was blooming up the sides of the altar.
i saw, then, what i had turned into. i have had so many hands around my wrists. inside of my stomach. how often i had been a dead animal, home only to mustelids.
here i was, breathing in the sacred dust motes, and i had been turned into loam. i had coated every frock and pew and candle. i had sworn in an entire family of mushrooms. i had blanketed moss over every parishioner. all of us asleep. all of the world in wildflowers.
so often i could have made myself a calamity. i could have tipped myself over an edge. so often this year i wanted to. i felt irrevocably in love with death. with silence. with a quick and seamless end.
i laid down in my childhood church; which has heard only the least of my sins. i laid down and the sky opened, and i saw every scratch and splinter of my body open in a beautiful seam. i saw what each of them had done to me. how often i have wanted to say it is over, i have given up.
a year ago, i couldn't fathom what it meant. i wanted to slip into a snowdrift and arise as a ghost. i was parsing my speech and my life like stacking rice grains: my hands shaking, i watched every step forward result in a blow.
today my hair is in knots. i am anxious about everything.
but i think i can tell you now, if you're anything like me. i really could have been a grave or an axe or a riot. i could have been cinders and sharpness and violence. i could have wielded the past like a saber and struck down on every outstretched hand.
i own myself, though. and instead of reaping - i sow.
in 2026 DO NOT ask yourself whether your art is GOOD
instead ask:
is it SINCERE
was it CATHARTIC
was it FUN TO MAKE
is it MADE BY ME
and don't forget to stay silly
faeries are not real but i wish thwy were so i could spray one with raid
harry houdini to his wife after a long exhausting dinner with arthur conan doyle
actually i love growing older and learning how i work as a person like realizing what kinds of fabrics feel best on my skin or what brand of yogurt i like best or how I want to be touched. watching myself change, enjoying brussel sprouts when I used to hate them as a child, understanding why I got angry in that one conversation 10 years ago… there are so many mysteries inside me that i have yet to unravel and there will always be more and sometimes i think maybe its all worth it
google search how to cough up the ball of grief that's been stuck in your stomach since birth
Charles Bukowski, "about the mail lately," from The Flash of Lightning Behind the Mountain
"Let's not talk about that, not now, all right? It's so dark here and so lonely and we are standing so close together—isn't that enough? Let's be quiet, please. That's much nicer, don't you think?"
"It is raining, it is dark and lonely and we are standing close together—yes, of course, it's beautiful…"
– Wolfgang Borchert, from “Dear, Blue-Grey Night” The Sad Geraniums and Other Stories (The Ecco Press, 1973)
I was born to sit in a cafe doing fuck all
“what was it that i desired? for the pain to dissolve like sugar? for someone else to hold my hand? for the burden of loving me to be given to someone else?”
— Promises of Gold, José Olivarez
doomed by the narrative? couldn't be me, i doomed the narrative myself