Not To Be Political But Why On Earth Would You Choose Your Wedding Venue To Be A Plantation When You

There are manmade joys beyond my comprehension, too. The horrors aren’t special.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

Richard Siken, Crush (Little Beast)

George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones (A Song of Ice and Fire)

Margaret Atwood

Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games

Yves Olade, Bloodsport

Ada Limon said,  “I haven’t given up on trying to live a good life, a really good one even.” and “I want to try and be terrific. Even for an hour.” and  Anis Mojgani said, “Will I be something? Am I something? and the answer comes: You already are. You always were. And you still have time to be.”

all the symbolism and stuff aside, i will never, EVER, be able to live down the fact that Daphne didn't end up with Francisco

Daniel Kwan (co-director of Everything Everywhere All at Once and Swiss Army Man) on maximalism in art.

what is it about these photos that makes my heart burst with nostalgia and longing for a familiar place i've never been?

Norway | Johannes Höhn

the pain is neverending...........but so is the swag 🫡

Compilation of deleted scenes from tdr (from now-deleted tweets from rfk)

(full credit to @rinezhabot on twitter for the original tweet and gathering the screenshots!)

The Zen of La Llorona

by Deborah Miranda

La Llorona rises over my town– a solitary curve, sharpened by someone else’s fury. I read a small gray Zen book Everyone loses everything. Lovers, families, friends, possessions, egos– we keep nothing of this world, not even our bodies. It’s as if you’d lost your favorite teacup, you see. No amount of searching, weeping or wailing will bring it back. If you want a drink, use a different container. Write a long series of passionate poems about your cup. Hell, write a whole book. Obsession is the mother of creation. But as you compose, sip from the new mug. It will become your mug of choice. You’ll lose that one, too. And so on. In theory, anyway, we outlast dispossession: Ceramic mugs, hearts, continents. Outside, La Llorona’s knife slices the indigo heart of silence. Nonsense, she howls. There’s always something left to lose.

how many selfies does it take for you to know me?

how many does it take for me to know myself