clarice lispector why this world: a biography of clarice lispector \\ fernando pessoa i have more souls than one: i see boats moving (tr. jonathan griffin)
kofi
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when can i say your name and have it mean only your name and not what you left behind?
c. t. salazar / nosugarallspicenothingnice on pinterest / sierra demulder / naomi shibab nye
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reinventing yourself as a violent act
destroyed by hippie powers, car seat headrest // @/angelcommunist // portrait of fryderyk in shifting light, richard siken
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call me back
bidoofenergy | @screenshotsofdespair (x) | "The Glass Essay" - Anne Carson | Rhoda Alex | "Beneath the Strangeness of It" - Lisa Wright | screenshotsofdespair | "Saudade" - Michael Spence | @secondimpact (x) | @pansylair (x) | "Look over Yonder" - Sanaa Gateja | "Beautiful Short Loser" - Ocean Vuong | Tanuj Dargan | Carolyn Huu (tiktok) | My Way - Young the Giant | "namaskaram" - bidoofenergy
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in the Beginning, there is a thing made of clay. rough palms and gravel voice, starlit cheeks. it blinks. it breathes.
it Asks.
the words crumble at the edges and from within the clay-dark mouth, they emerge stained. cupped in just-formed hands, they lose most of their shape.
the thing makes of them an offering, anyway.
for a moment, the clay parts and gives way to a jewel-studded gaping. a tap. the thing cracks open. inside, it is hollow.
inside a yawning mouth lays; a prayer, worn thin with wanting. a plea, shaved to the bone. a question.
bleeding still.
it's made a mess of the forests, see. red-wet and brown-dry and ever sticky, it covers the bark in smears. it has not rained in days, and the trees are starving. the clay stays, dripping, even after the thing has left, see.
in the dark, it lays still, gravel-hands draped over sharp-edged, brilliant ribs.
- how fares my heart? how break my bones? where lives my laughter?
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