Cancer. It’s a word that just.tastes.bad. It holds onto the back of your throat when you try to say it. “Cancer” doesn’t want to get out. It certainly doesn’t roll off the tongue, yet once it is finally spoken, it spills. It spills all down your chin and the front of your dress and on the floor. When someone says it, everyone’s surprised. No one knows what to do with the mess. All the while, the speaker is just hoping someone else will come and be able to clean it up.
Artist born in Japan and living in NYC.
Two birds died today. They are survived by lists on scrap paper that are crossed out cruelly and limp strings formerly tied around index fingers. In lieu of flowers, the family has requested that donations be made to the National Aviary.
Poison + Wine
The Civil Wars
“Two possibilities exist: Either we are alone in the Universe or we are not. Both are equally terrifying.”
(Source: kapi)
Hand-embroidered newspapers by Lauren DiCioccio
Shameless plug for The Band
Buildings
Groan under the weight
Of their own facades
Heaving great sighs
Sending glimmers of light streaking across shiny surfaces.
Or is that what humans do?
Hush! Quiet, now, while Orion lies in still slumber atop the bristly appalachian-style trees. Trees that long to sway in the sweet mountain air, abandoning asphalt for ash borers.
