Cute (bet He Had A Whopper....)

The tide, I have it in the heart that goes back to me as a sign I die of my little sister, my childhood and my swan A boat, it depends how it is docked at the port of accuracy He cries from my firmament years of light and leaves me I am the fantasy jersey, the one who comes the night Throw the mist in kiss and pick you up in his rhymes Like the tremail of July where the lone wolf glowed The one I saw shining on the sand fingers of the earth

Remember this dog that we release on parole And who mouths in the desert of the greed of necropolis I'm sure life is there, with its flannel lungs When he cries of those times, the all-gray cold that calls us I remember the nights there and sprints won on the scum This drool of the horses ras, in the rock of the rocks which are consumed The angel of lost pleasures, rumors of another habit My desires, then, are only a sorrow of my loneliness

And the devil of the nights conquered with his helpers And the squale of paradises in the middle wet with moss Come back green girl from the fjords, come back violin violinades In the harbor, the horns are booming, for the comrades' return Ф rare scent of salting, in pepper fire crush When I went, my brain, my soul in the hollow of your wound In the mess of your ass, stuffed in fine dawn sheets I saw another stained glass, and you green girl, my spleen

Shells under sunlights, broken, liquid Play castanets as long as one looks like livid Spain Gods of granites, have pity on their vocation of adornment When the knife comes to interfere in their figure castanets And I saw what we feel when we press the glimpse Between the louvers of the blood and the globules appear A blue mathematics, on this ever-changing sea From where I go back little by little this memory of the stars

This rumor that comes from there, under the bow boyfriend where I blind myself Those hands that make me fla-fla, those ruminant hands that moo This rumor follows me a long time as a beggar under anathema Like the shadow that is wasting its time drawing my theorem And under my red makeup comes beating like a door This rumor that goes up, in the street, to dead music It's over, the sea is over, on the beach, the sandy beach Like sheep of infinity ... When the sea shepherdess calls me.

Léo Ferré - La mémoire et la mer

by William Whitaker

Standing

Good morning cute.

When is the weather too hot for a knish? (Answer: never!) ⠀ .⠀ A fixture of the Lower East Side, Yonah Schimmel has been serving knishes here on Houston Street since 1890. Originally a pushcart business, Schimmel, a Romanian immigrant, opened a brick and mortar shop on the north side of Houston in the 1890s as his business flourished. In 1910 the knish shop moved into its current location at no. 137. After more than 120 years, the business is still family-owned and run. Today the shop is owned by Alex Wolfman, Yonah’s great nephew.⠀ .⠀ Milton Glaser and Jerome Snyder wrote in their 1968 guide to cheap NYC eats that (much like a Nathan’s Famous hot dog), “No New York politician in the last 50 years has been elected to office without having at least one photograph showing him on the Lower East Side with a knish in his face.” ⠀ .⠀ .⠀ #urbanarchive #nychistory #LES #lowereastside #YonahSchimmel #knish #food #nosh #bakery #jewishimmigrants #kosher #nyc #oldtimenyc #manhattan #nycthenandnow #thenandnow #photorecreation⠀ Join the Urban Archive beta 📱 [link in bio]

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i sense he has a whopper....

Brayden

Main and Hastings was perhaps the most horrible corner in Western Canada. It was referred to in Vancouver as “Skid Row,” and it deserved the reputation. Vancouver police had long ago come to a tacit understanding with the voluminous addict population of the city: stay in your own little corner of town, and we’ll leave you alone. Police only arrested the most flagrant abusers of the law here, and the result was horrific. The area boasted the highest per capita AIDS rate in the civilized Western World, and absolute poverty was the rule. Drunken aboriginals lay heaped on the sidewalks, dealers openly plied their trade, and junkies fixed their dope in doorways. Ironically, the Vancouver Police Department’s main office was located right smack in the middle of it all; on the corner of Main and Hastings. The fortress-like building was always within sight of the wheeling and dealing pushers.

perhaps but why is she holding a gigantic ball bearing? 

Why do we close our eyes when we pray,cry, kiss or dream? Because the most beautiful things in life are not seen but felt by the heart