“There Is Only Now; And No Matter How This War Came About, No Matter How It Is Run, It Belongs To Us.

“Those lovers are mostly gone. My hands remain—: like altars.”

— Natalie Diaz, from The Hand Has Twenty-Seven Bones—: These Hands If Not Gods (via wishbzne)

knuckle tats say FOUC AULT

It is all an illusion (which is nothing against it, for illusions are the most valuable and nessecary of all things, and she who can create one is among the world’s greatest benefactors),

- Virginia Woolf, Orlando

A handwritten note, scrawled in Arabic on a torn cigarette pack, was discovered on the ground last week in Pozzallo as migrants filed off a ship. It was from someone initialed “A” to someone else initialed “R.”

“I wanted to be with you,” read the note. “Don’t you dare forget me. I love you very much. My wish is for you not to forget me. Be well my love. A loves R. I love you.”

كلمات عربية مكتوبة بخط اليد على غلاف علبة سجائر ممزقة عُثر عليها بعد إنقاذ مركب لمهاجريين غير شرعيين لإيطاليا من أ لـ ر The New York Times | T.B : Lynsey Addario 

Every moon will be a moon of surrender

Ada Limón, The Noisiness of Sleep

We teeter / on the brink of time, you and I, he, she, / all of us, all so worthy of pity.

Maria Bigoszewska, tr. Regina Grol

I’ve felt a peculiar attachment to the t’s of the past: weep, wept, sleep, slept, leave, left. There’s a finality there,

- Heather Christle, The Crying Book

I always want to see you laughing. It belongs to you.

Anaïs Nin, Henry and June

Raptures could be little or large, could come one after the other in a torrent, or singly and separated by long dullness. For him life was a constant drama of seeing and blindness, but, when seeing, the world would suddenly seem to him laden.

Niall Williams, History of the Rain