December 2010
8 posts
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Will Sheff's voice does this to me.
In my mind I’m constantly narrating, describing and rewriting. One of the reasons I listen to my ipod all the time, whether I’m walking to class or simply sitting in car, is because I like pretending my life has a soundtrack, like I’m Audrey Hepburn or some classic Hollywood beauty, walking down these godforsaken suburban streets to Dario Marianelli. Always making up for ugliness with beauty.
My...
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Those lemon bars were just so damn good.
My sister: Do you want seconds?
Dad: No, I want minutes! (scoops all the lemon bars)
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Don’t move. stay. as the streetlights hit your face like a million brilliant suns on a darkened moon. Let me touch the arch of your brow the curvature of your lips. let my fingertips make a memory.
our cold-bitten cheeks touching. I saw our reflection in the rain and i was home.
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i write more when the weather gets cold.
I painted trees on your skin just so that your branches could reach me. and i whispered secrets like dream-forgotten echoes through your leaves where birds hide from slanted sunlight knives. under your shadow where lovers loved and vagabond poets sat that’s where i want to be. like a memory. like a simple word. like a painting that bleeds its colors in a river.
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This is why American Lit > British Lit
“And I will look down and see my murmuring bones and the deep water like wind, like a roof of wind, and after a long time they cannot distinguish even bones upon the lonely and inviolate sand.”
—William Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury