“Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as a secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.”

―Leonard Cohen, The Favorite Game

Instagram: @fillmetothebone

Trigger Warning
Drowning In Ellipses


Oh the sweetness of flowers in memory of caresses
And the fiery lava flowing
Slowly from your eyes
Slowly into my veins
A visage in the crowd
Among so many others multiplied by our looks
You who could have been another
And who cancels green wood memories
In my burned out autumn

Fatéma Chahid, “Escape,” translated from the French by Hafsa Bekri-Lamrani, Prague Writers’ Festival (2014)

about me  

Standing there, unable to find him, she felt a new solidarity with him. The bond of not existing.

Jhumpa Lahiri, The Lowland (via poemusicoffee)

'Mother of heaven, regina of the clouds,
O sceptre of the sun, crown of the moon,
There is not nothing, no, no, never nothing,
Like the clashed edges of two words that kill.’
And so I mocked her in magnificent measure.
Or was it that I mocked myself alone?
I wish that I might be a thinking stone.
The sea of spuming thought foists up again
The radiant bubble that she was. And then
A deep up-pouring from some saltier well
Within me, bursts its watery syllable.

Wallace Stevens, opening to “Le Monocle de Mon Oncle,” The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens (Vintage Books, 1990)

The next time you walk into a room full of people, I want you to see how they talk and interact and exchange and tell stories and make jokes. Simply watch, listen, soak it in.

Soon you’ll see there’s a hidden anxiety underneath all their language, a deeper sort of quest for each person to validate their individual existence. You’ll see this web of tug-of-war where everyone is pulling, clawing, scratching, grasping for this weight.

It’s like there’s a secret limited stash of golden currency in the air, and everyone’s fighting for it by telling the better story, bragging about their bank account, trying to be the funny guy, showing off their intelligence, dropping famous names, wearing a name, holding up false bravado, pretending to be a mystery, masking their voice in tight controlled expressions of eloquence.

You know what this is: insecurity. Everyone’s fighting for glory to cover the emptiness, that vacuum fracture. And even when they get the glory from that room, it will never be enough: because we weren’t made for the temporary glory of this earth. Our true glory is beyond the room, outside one another, from on high.

J.S. from this post  (via jspark3000)

Still Life with Cat and Lobster, John Henry Dolph


Still Life with Cat and Lobster, John Henry Dolph


Virginia Broersma (USA) - Swish from Exercise Project, 2011-2012     Paintings: Oil on Canvas


Virginia Broersma (USA) - Swish from Exercise Project, 2011-2012     Paintings: Oil on Canvas

Live with me on Earth among red berries and the bluebirds
And leafy young twigs whispering
Within such little spaces, between such floors of green, such
figures in the clouds
That two of us could fill our lives with delicate wanting:

Where stars past the spruce copse mingle with fireflies
Or the dayscape flings a thousand tones of light back at the sun—
Be any one of the colours of an Earth lover;
Walk with me and sometimes cover your shadow with mine.

Milton Acorn, “Live With Me On Earth Under the Invisible Daylight Moon,” Dig Up My Heart: Selected Poems 1952-83 (McClelland and Stewart, 1983)



realest thing I’ve seen in a while

this was so amazing. so thought provoking. an eye-opening social criticism.

There is a shipwreck between your ribs. You are a box with fragile written on it, and so many people have not handled you with care.

— Shinji Moon, What It Took To Understand (via larmoyante)