(via youngheartsrunwild)
…is always on time. Without fail, at the end of the day, there it is. Life’s a bit like that. We collect the threads of our days in our “navel cavity” based on the coarseness of our attitude, figuratively speaking of course (Duh). Thank God, each day is a new day and every night an opportune time to clean it out.
Today is a new day.
Tomorrow ended last night.
One today is worth two tomorrows.
Deep, I know. Just saying…
Read a fairly interesting post. There’s some truth in it too.
This is going to seem super obvious, but I’m of the impression that, generally, those with the most compelling stories to tell are either unwilling or unable to give voice to their experiences.
She held in her hands the entire wardrobe of her husband. As an elder, the portrait was somewhat endearing but equally frightening. She had spent several minutes surveying the men’s clothing, whereby she had subsequently selected seven shirts of the same style, but of a slightly different colour. Little difference, little divergence. Like the most mundane of packed lunches, she held her hands a week’s worth of clothing for her husband; one shirt for each day of the week, with little variance between them.
unknown
Channelle, this includes James. Sorry…
bites this universe in two,
peels forever out of it’s grave
and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?” — e e cummings.
e e cummings.
I get a dopamine fix from his writing. fullstop. His diveregence, his insistence on being published only if his initials remained lower case, and his bohemian writing style leave me pensive, to say the least. I like it.
