Second time reblogging this.
There’s just something about their voices that keeps making me hit the replay button.
I bet you’ll see them in the future.
New obsession.
ugh i just love them so much k
oh my god. they are babies but wow. they are amazing.
remember/forget/remember.
He was planted firmly in my tastebuds - on the tip of my tongue like a word i knew but couldn’t remember - i was choking on the taste of something so familiar. i tried to spit him out, but there were loopholes in the way i was beginning to function on the brink of remember/forget/remember and then back again. he was that taste like a word (un)known sitting on the tip of my tongue and he was becoming bitter as i fell further from the grips of gravity. remember/forget/remember in a cycle of him/me/him sitting on tastebuds and laughing at the lack of remembrance. i couldn’t wait to spit him out for good, remember my words, and find my grounded footing instead of floating in forgetting
Once I start dreaming…
…I keep dreaming. My dog is dead. I am barefoot inside a public bathroom. I am fucking a fat man, his girth slapping into me like a huge hairy tide. I am crying. I am not crying. I am saying goodbye. I am saying yes. I am grieving over a dirty toilet bowl, running from the grease that lines an old grill, sweeping my hands over the cold metal of a revolver like the face of my lover. I dream of my lover, a green chasm, all the notes inside an octave, his blue t-shirt. I am dreaming of my naked legs, collecting the dawn as I step between puddles of yesterday’s errands, my vanity still organized around sharp corners and the promise of mahogany. I am fingering the teeth of my piano, my hands are sticky, my hands are cold, my hands are on fire, my hands are chapped, they are reaching and fisted and turned away and grasped. My hands are locked in his as he looks up at me, my hips jutting into him, like two paper clips joined by compulsion and the underlying way of things. I am walking away, I am running away, I am hiding behind the door, white sneakers about to find me, my sweat crawling over me like a fisherman’s net. I am caught—
awake. I am heaving sleep from my chest, a bag of coals glowing and insufferable, as the stuff of dreams cures, swift and aching, down my face.
At the end of the very last scene of Kramer vs. Kramer, Meryl Streep believing that the scene had ended, asked Dustin Hoffman if her eye make-up was messed up from crying. The director kept it in the movie.
SHTOP!
Y U SO PERFECT
Y I NO SEE THIS MOVIE
Once upon a time, a bright little star fell from his perch in the blackened sky and landed in the backyard of a lonely young girl. As he began to fizzle and dim, the little star began to weep, looking up at his brothers and sisters still safely sitting above.
The girl had seen him plunge to the ground, streaking light across the dark cover of rolling clouds. She had watched him land with a thud, and now she heard his cries, mournful in the cool air of twilight. The screen door creaked as she pushed it open, stepping into dewy grass that found its blades wedged between the tiny spaces of her bare toes.
“Hello,” said the girl to the star. ”Why are you crying?”
The star sniffled, somewhat shocked that the girl had chosen to speak to him.
“Because I have fallen,” said the star sadly, ”and I will miss my family in the sky. I do not want to die alone down here.”
“But who says you are going to die here?” asked the girl.
“I am a star,” he replied matter-of-factly. ”Have you ever seen a living star down on earth? Stars live in the sky.”
The girl had no idea how to help the mournful thing. After a half a moment’s silence, he began to sob once more, harder and shakier. The girl was frankly surprised that neither her family nor the neighbors had heard the little star, but in a way, she was thankful. This was her own private moment in time, something she would never share with another soul. The little girl liked that.
Kneeling beside the star, she shushed him, telling him it would be okay. She whispered in the same way her mother whispered to her when the little girl was sick and distressed.
“You’re not alone,” she said. ”I will stay with you.”
“How will that help?” snapped the star tearfully. ”I will still die. I will still miss my family, and I won’t even get to tell them good-bye. How will you staying with me help anything?”
And so the girl stood and went back into her sleepy little house, gently shutting the screen door behind her. She climbed up the old stairs, each yielding a bit to her footsteps, and she laid back in bed, head falling reluctantly to her flower-printed pillow. The little star moaned in anguish, and the girl did her best to fall asleep, because sometimes the best you can do is wait for the pain to end, especially if it isn’t your pain.
Sometimes, it’s all you can do.
The kiss of death.
This astonishing sculpture forms part of Barcelona’s Poblenou Cemetery. The Kiss of Death (El Petó de la Mortin Catalan and El beso de la muerte in Spanish) dates back to 1930. A winged skeleton bestows a kiss on the lips of a handsome young man: is it ecstasy on his face or resignation? Little wonder the sculpture elicits strong and varying responses from whoever gazes upon it.
Soy de Barcelona y nunca lo había visto. Viva yo. xD
