Shoebox Photographs and Sepiatoned Love Letters
“Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living.”
Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

“Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living.”

Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

humansofnewyork:

"A few years ago, I got a call on my cell phone from a twelve year old child from my village. He was calling me from a bus stop. He’d taken a bus into the city alone, and he was calling me to ask if I could help him find a way to go to school. Both of his parents had died of AIDS, and he had no money for tuition. I told him to stay where he was, and left work immediately to pick him up. At first I was very mad at him. He should not have travelled alone. But then I looked at him and I saw myself. I’d also been desperate to go to school after my father was killed, but we had no money. So even though I was suffering myself, I told him I would try to help him. My salary was not enough, so I tried many things to get the money. After work, I went to the landfill to hunt for recyclables. But after I paid to have them cleaned, there was no money left. Now I’m trying to make bricks. I have a small operation in the village to make bricks, and I sell them in the city. It doesn’t make much money, but it’s enough to pay tuition for the boy and three of his siblings.” (Kampala, Uganda)

humansofnewyork:

"A few years ago, I got a call on my cell phone from a twelve year old child from my village. He was calling me from a bus stop. He’d taken a bus into the city alone, and he was calling me to ask if I could help him find a way to go to school. Both of his parents had died of AIDS, and he had no money for tuition. I told him to stay where he was, and left work immediately to pick him up. At first I was very mad at him. He should not have travelled alone. But then I looked at him and I saw myself. I’d also been desperate to go to school after my father was killed, but we had no money. So even though I was suffering myself, I told him I would try to help him. My salary was not enough, so I tried many things to get the money. After work, I went to the landfill to hunt for recyclables. But after I paid to have them cleaned, there was no money left. Now I’m trying to make bricks. I have a small operation in the village to make bricks, and I sell them in the city. It doesn’t make much money, but it’s enough to pay tuition for the boy and three of his siblings.” 

(Kampala, Uganda)

“Later - when things happened that they could never have imagined - she wrote him a letter that said: When will you learn that there isn’t a word for everything” 

Nicole Krauss, The History of Love

“Later - when things happened that they could never have imagined - she wrote him a letter that said: When will you learn that there isn’t a word for everything”

Nicole Krauss, The History of Love


idonothateyou:

intentional dissonance #iwrotethisforyou #pleasefindthis #iainthomas #book

idonothateyou:

intentional dissonance #iwrotethisforyou #pleasefindthis #iainthomas #book

(via officialiwrotethisforyou)

(Source: Spotify)


"The useless days will add up to something. These things are your becoming." 

Cheryl Strayed, tiny beautiful things

"The useless days will add up to something. These things are your becoming."

Cheryl Strayed, tiny beautiful things


Time decides the wheres and whens. We decide what we keep.
Sam Shorey ( rocketsams )

officialiwrotethisforyou:

“It’s fine. Maybe you can make it ironic.
Something that feels like a girl in a short skirt at a party.
Offending her sensibilities with her own humour.
Daring you to love her and playing never-to-get.
Pretend there’s a joke that only her and the people who like the poem know.
Wink.
Maybe you can make it angry.
And tell a story of how how strong your mother was.
She raised you all on her own.
Or how drunk your father was.
Act like you were born on railroad tracks. Maybe your father was a train.
Get someone to play an 808 in the background.
Maybe you can put it in the middle of the road.
Pontificate a little.
Become a vanilla paste of words.
Don’t say anything really.
Wonder about the nature of a pen.
Be clever.
Maybe you can make it impenetrable.
Be as vague as possible.
Slam your fist into a grapefruit and make a kind of growling noise.
Roll your eyes as soon as someone asks you what it means.
Snap your fingers to show you don’t understand.
Wear a beret.
Maybe you can make it a history lesson.
Talk about the plants and leaves that grew around you.
Tell me something about a smell you remember from a kitchen.
Shock me with some kind brutality either inflicted or received or witnessed.
Write one of the words in a language I don’t understand.
Put it in italics.
Maybe you can make it real sensitive.
Write words that kiss the skin.
Make them sound like the space between two drum beats.
Talk about what it feels like to breathe. Or something.
Who cares.
Because poetry is the only art form that people naturally expect to be, shit.
So it’s ok to write shit poetry. It’s fine.”

— -Iain S. Thomas, 'Write a Shit Poem' (via soracities)

Never forget that a stranger once told you that the breeze here is something worth writing poems about. 

Never forget that a stranger once told you that the breeze here is something worth writing poems about. 


There is not a thing overrated about Parisian rooftops.
lescoeurs:

permanent—-rose:

There is not a thing overrated about Parisian rooftops.

lescoeurs:

permanent—-rose:

(Source: lucyeldridgeillustration, via prettystuff)

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