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La Pureté by Paul Gervais (1859-1944), oil on canvas, Le Capitole de Toulouse, Plafond de la Salle Gervais

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The Working Girl, Daniel Varoujan (translated by Alice Stone Blackwell)

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my grief is ruining me

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Fydoror Dostoevsky // Clarice Lispector

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plenty of emotions.

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The Roses of Heliogabalus (detail), 1898, oil on canvas Lawrence Alma-Tadema

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avon ‘sweet honesty’ perfume

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The Procession 

Panoply Vase Animation Project

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Vladimir Mayakovsky, from a letter featured in "Love in the Heart of Everything; The Correspondence between Vladimir Mayakovsky & Lili Brik, 1915-1930,"

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day 1,671

i keep looking for you in your favorite things. im rewatching your shows and movies in hopes that i will find a piece of you there.

its 4am and the birds are chirping and the sun is about to rise and i a, 2,817 miles away from where we first met and i cant go one day without thinking about you. no matter how long its been, the tears will always prick my eyes and burn my skin as they roll down. a silent promise to never forget you, but also a promise to never get better. i wish someone would love me like you did. no one will ever be that gentle with me again.

my grief has made me rough, frayed at the edges, like an old sweater thats been washed too many times, every thread threatening to fall apart at any moment.

i think youd hate that im writing this. you hated everything like this.

do you judge me when i cry and scream over you after all this time? do you hate that we are tethered, sometimes i do. but the pain of not having you is worth it to have spent even one second with you.

your laugh sounded like being a child again at a sleepover, hiding under blankets with sticky hands and unbrushed teeth, trying not to be too loud so our parents dont wake.

i wish we had been friends when were 6. it felt like we had been. maybe we were separated at birth. maybe in another life we met on the playground and we were still laughing. i can still hear you if i try. i see you every time i close my eyes. i look for you in every crowd. even though i know youll never be there. i hold out hope that you faked your death and ran away and maybe ill be the lucky one to find you.

i know thats not real, i saw you in that casket.

i keep replaying what you said to me the night before you died: “we were born to be best friends.”

you were right, half of me is buried with you. and half of you remains with me. some days it feels like youre sitting right next to me. most days i fall asleep on the couch pretending my head is still in your lap.

do you still think im a flower?

im still sorry i wasnt there.

can i see you in my dreams tonight?

love,

your born-in best friend.

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Shelley Duvall for the New York Times, April 2024

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The Glass Essay, Anne Carson | Molly Brodak, Molly Brodak

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DARTH MAUL STAR WARS Episode I: The Phantom Menace (1999)