“I’ve Always Hated My Name For Some Reason. It Always Sounded Weird When It Passed Through My Lips

And he'll return to me, aching to be hold, aching to be loved.

(excerpts from the long lost lover)/siyah

Longing is the absent chatting with the absent. The distant turning towards the distant. Longing is the spring’s thirst for the jar-carrying women and vice versa. Longing allows distance to recede, as if looking forward, although it may be called hope, were an adventure and a poetic notion. The present tense is hesitant and perplexed, the past tense hangs from a Cypress tree standing on its rooted leg behind a hill, enveloped in its dark green, listening intently to one sound only : the sound of the wind. Longing is the sound of the wind.

—Mahmoud Darwish, from “XIV”, In the Presence of Absence. Archipelago, 2011

Temple of Asclepius (Aesculapius): Villa Borghese Gardens, Rome.

“I watched her die many times. In my way, not in hers. In sunlight, in shadow, by moonlight, by candlelight. In the long afternoons when the house was empty. Only the sun was there to keep us company. We shut him out. And why not? Very soon she was as eager for what’s called loving, as I was - more lost and drowned afterwards.”

— Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea

Bhanu Kapil, from The Vertical Interrogation of Strangers

Thank you to everyone who got me to 100 likes!

Martin Buxbaum

- "Sometimes everything inside you cries,but your eyes"

kanye sleeping.