— Maggie Nelson, Bluets

220820 KEY ✨ SMTOWN LIVE 2022 : SMCU EXPRESS in SUWON (© 1214923k)

Artists who know how to draw armors or very detailed clothing are powerful

— Franz Kafka, Letter to His Father

[text ID: My writing was all about you; all I did there, after all, was to bemoan what I could not bemoan upon your breast.]

green & purple pngs ! credit not necessary for pngs! like or reblog to use, don't repost as your own please.

embrace (II), peter wever

When Oscar Wilde said Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation, and Jorge Luis Borges said I am not sure that I exist, actually. I am all the writers that I have read, all the people that I have met, all the women that I have loved; all the cities I have visited.

when I am among the trees, mary oliver (read by amanda palmer)

made by yours truly

“There’s a soft spot in everything Our fingers touch, the one place where everything breaks When we press it just right. The past is like that with its arduous edges and blind sides, The whorls of our fingerprints embedded along its walls Like fossils the sea has left behind.”

— Charles Wright, from “Two Stories,” The Other Side of the River (Random House, 1984)

My brother cracked my rib one morning and gave me half of his orange in the evening.

I remember being younger and sometimes wishing to be a single child, to have all the attention and gifts and time but when he was away from home for the first time, I remember crying and stroking his side of the sofa as if blurting out my first wish- for him to be home, without thinking twice, without a shadow of doubt. Even the genie cried. Growing up with a sibling is like being the only people on a stranded boat, constantly figuring out how you can live with them and questioning how you could ever live without them.

One evening, in a fit of anger, I told him how I never wanted him to be my brother and he yelled that he didn't ask for it either. The air smelled like kerosene and my chest was filled with arsenic. I was raging and threw his favorite toy aeroplane down the window, 7 stories of guilt and shame. He cried all night and I wanted to cut off my right hand, the hand that hurt my baby brother. I didn't know if he was ever going to forgive me or even talk to me. The next morning at breakfast, he didn't look at me or say a word, I felt like my chest was about to explode and guilt clouded my vision. But then, I felt a hand quietly holding half of an orange my way.

The only people on a stranded boat. How do you live with them? How could you ever live without them?

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

Edit: I added a visualizer for this on my YouTube channel. Check it out here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*