"メイドの日なので再放送🫖⚡️" By しば (@kabenianaippai)

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Meet Libby. Discover and enjoy ebooks and audiobooks from your local library.

If not, download it to your phone, and under "Add library card" select the button to search for a library and start typing in "queer"...

Queer Liberation Library

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Frankly some of you should be hornier over weirder shit. The fear of being too genuine is the enemy of art. Be a bit of a pervert. It's good for the health. Doesn't have to be a sexual thing just own up to being a bit obsessed in some cringe shit it's fine.

Just a quick note from your friendly neighborhood bookworm/indie author

if you use kindle for the majority of your library, they will be shutting down the function that allows you to download your files and transfer them via USB on the 26th of February. Which doesn't sound like a huge deal, but this also means that if a book is taken off Amazon for any reason—like it being banned—they can scrape it off your kindle as well. So maybe backup your library?

by Aleksandr Podrez

Me: I want to create! But…it’ll be bad.

Voice inside of me: So let it be bad. 

Me: Let it be bad? 

Voice inside of me: Let it be bad. 

Me: Let it be bad!

Rites of Winter

We’d been feasting on the famous foods of winter: squash, potatoes, a steamed pot of dark greens. And after, we danced in Glenn’s living room above Crystal Creek, barefoot on the Persian rug, eating chocolate cake, and almost knocking over the candles. So when the frogs in the pond out front began to sing—a bass note followed by a high-pitched exclamation—we slid out the door and past the tall clusters of bamboo, over the wooden bridge, moving to the frenzied rhythm of the frogs, who—it seemed— grew louder and more intent the more we rocked to their cacophony. So it was frogs and moonlight and dancing under the bare bones of the trees, the creek suddenly swollen after six years of drought. And Glenn—one year older and nearing (though he didn’t yet know it) the end of his greatest love. And we were calling out to the frogs, who called back to us as we stumbled, nearly into the bracken water, and leapt up onto the pond-side boulders, hands in the air, a light mist falling on our arms, our upturned faces. And I couldn’t decide: was the world enamored with itself?— all this riotous back and forth? Or had we only invoked alarm, amphibian for get-back! get-back! I didn’t know. But how happy we were, for that hour, to believe we were one marvelous body, in our smooth and slippery skin. Even if the frogs did not want us. Even if our joint fates are written, already, in the tainted water, the dark and opulent mud.

Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.

Sunset!

from Deep and Dark, Beautiful and Bright:

When the train screeched its way into the city, it was nearing dusk, and Trip pressed his nose to the window, drinking in the glowing orange concoction of sunset and streetlamps. It almost gave the impression of journeying through a beehive—bustling, honey colored, geometric. And here they were to meet the queen.

Trouble

He’d wanted the persimmons and asked her for them, but when she gave him the brown paper bag, brimming over, he was taken aback. Did he really need that many ? Still, he brought them home to his wife, and soon there were persimmons ripening on the kitchen counters, lining the windowsills. Each day, growing more and more succulent until the air was thick and sweet with their scent. At breakfast, he’d break one open with his spoon—the skin supple and ready to give—stir it into his hot cereal. Indescribable, the taste. And a texture he might have described as sea creature meets manna from heaven. When he ate one, he thought of her. And when he saw her, he thought of the persimmons. When her arm brushed, just barely, against his, did he imagine they both felt the same quickening? In myth, fruit is usually the beginning of disaster. And the way they made themselves so obvious— an almost audible orange against the white walls— made him wish he’d never asked her for them, didn’t have to smell them sugaring the air with ruin, as he sat there, face lowered to the bowl, spooning the soft pulp into his mouth.

Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.

fascinating that when you tell people "you have to learn the rules to break them" when talking about drawing/painting etc everyone nods and agrees but the second you say "you have to read books if you want to write better" there's a horde of contrarians begging to be the wrongest people ever all of a sudden