*

Velda. 24.

[voidflavor]

*

Days without you converge into themselves and roll on absent of feeling. The rain smatters against the windowpane uselessly. I wonder how far I would have to walk before reaching the nearest sparrow nest, and how much further I’d have to walk to reach you

[voidflavor]

* When we created external memory storage devices, the faithful image was born. A photograph stays forever, something like that. But no picture can record the way the tip of your finger heats my palm up like a freshly fired gun. Before you I suffer from a state of primordial clarity.

[bussytwink-deactivated20210401]

[m0ney]

GraemeNicol on flickr ⋆ ˚｡⋆✩

[opendirectories]

[melowtune]

[voidflavor]

*

The cold morning rain. Picking the skin off our thumbs. There is a sweet mandarin orange. There is me, then there is you. We mouth it between us and skin it with our teeth. You and I — thick heat and soft pulp.

[mournfulroses]

Mahmoud Darwish, from a poem titled "How Do I Write Above The Clouds," featured in If I Were Another: Poems

[deeperprocess00]

[bleedingtruth]

[pglang]

Sony Playstation 2 Print Ads (2001)

[weltenwellen]

Tori McCandless, "Post-Glacial"

[aaaangel444]

[irenelichtensteinblog]

Stavros Stavrakis

[victormalonso]

shore of my life | victor m. alonso

[aaaangel444]

[ruknowhere]

This note was written by a child who was listening in on a bunch of artists discussing art and life.