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Werther.
"[G]rown-ups too tumble around like children on the face of the earth, not knowing where they come from or where they are going, acting as little from true purpose, and just as ruled by biscuits and cakes and birch rods: no one really wants to believe that" (14).
--From The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, translated by ( Read more... ) -
(Untitled)
larvatus prodeo. -
What do bee public servants do? Pollen-tics.
BBC's Matt Frei interviews G.W. Bush ( Read more... ) -
seeds that will not bloom.
The chill in the room is just crooked enough to pull me around and through as though with a hook, and the yarn over my fingers is just thin enough that I give up fashioning baby nooses. I want to learn to play the musical saw and produce sounds that can only be described as 'weird' in the original sense of the word, keening ululations that keep my ( Read more... ) -
(Untitled)
My grandmother died this morning. The wind took her. It couldn't help it really, the gusts being so strong and her body being so weak-- -
I was half-way crucified
"So was I once myself a swinger of birches ( Read more... ) -
sevily snevans
This is the sort of night for remembering. Summoning old characters out of the darkest part of the gloom during these hours before dawn when the shadows deepen so as to make the lightening of the sky so much more startling when it finally occurs. My room is awash in drifting waves of the accumulated detritus of my life, half-packed into boxes. This ( Read more... )
