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""More to the point, have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior?" "No," Rydell said, "I haven't." "That's good," she said, turning down the propane ring. "That's one thing I can't tolerate. Raised by 'em."
😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭" — Jun 16, 2026 12:25PM
""More to the point, have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior?" "No," Rydell said, "I haven't." "That's good," she said, turning down the propane ring. "That's one thing I can't tolerate. Raised by 'em."
😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭" — Jun 16, 2026 12:25PM
“Writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.”
―
―
“Music is feeling, then not sound;
And thus it is what i feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue- shadowed silk
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in elders...”
―
And thus it is what i feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue- shadowed silk
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in elders...”
―
“She thought of the boy's features as an exquisite distillation out of random patterns-endless queues of happenstance meeting at this nexus.”
― Dune
― Dune
“We keep each other alive with our stories. We need to share them, as much as we need to share food. We also require for our health the presence of good companions. One of the most extraordinary things about the land is that it knows this—and it compels language from some of us so that as a community we may converse about this or that place, and speak of the need.”
―
―
“Brooklyn’s too cold tonight
& all my friends are three years away.
My mother said I could be anything
I wanted—but I chose to live.
On the stoop of an old brownstone,
a cigarette flares, then fades.
I walk towards it: a razor
sharpened with silence.
A jawline etched in smoke.
The mouth where I’ll be made
new again. Stranger, palpable
echo, here is my hand, filled
with blood thin as a widow’s
tears. I am ready. I am ready
to be every animal
you leave behind.”
―
& all my friends are three years away.
My mother said I could be anything
I wanted—but I chose to live.
On the stoop of an old brownstone,
a cigarette flares, then fades.
I walk towards it: a razor
sharpened with silence.
A jawline etched in smoke.
The mouth where I’ll be made
new again. Stranger, palpable
echo, here is my hand, filled
with blood thin as a widow’s
tears. I am ready. I am ready
to be every animal
you leave behind.”
―
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