Ralph Waldo Emerson
January 24, 2015, 9:02 pm
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“It is easy in the world to live after the world’s opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.”

The Complete Prose Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson


hard times
January 24, 2015, 4:52 pm
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How Should a Person Be?
January 18, 2015, 9:24 pm
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“There are certain people who do not feel like they were raised by wolves, and they are the ones who make the world tick.” -Sheila Heti

The Perks of Being a Wallflower
January 17, 2015, 9:07 am
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b: my bunkie wanted to borrow a book, so I gave him “The Perks of Being a Wallflower..” but I told him, the only reason I’m doing this is because my wife would want me to share Charlie and not keep him all to myself. and that he has to take this book seriously. you have to actually listen to Charlie.  ❤

January 14, 2015, 9:59 pm
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“can you try to answer? I just really like to hear your voice in the morning.”

c.s. lewis
January 11, 2015, 6:26 pm
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Never Ever -Brenda Shaughnessy
January 2, 2015, 1:06 pm
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Alarmed, today is a new dawn,
and that affair recurs daily like clockwork,

undone at dusk, when a new restaurant
emerges in the malnourished night.

We said it would be this way, once this became
the way it was. So in a way we were

waiting for it. I still haven’t eaten, says the cook
in the kitchen. A compliant complaint.

I never eat, says the slender diner. It’s slander,
and she’s scared, like a bully pushing

lettuce around. The cook can’t look, blind with hunger
and anger. I told a waiter to wait

for me and I haven’t seen him since. O it has been forty
minutes it has been forty years.

Late is a synonym for dead which is a euphemism
for ever. Ever is a double-edged word,

at once itself and its own opposite: always
and always some other time.

In the category of cleave, then. To cut and to cling to,
somewhat mournfully.

That C won’t let leave alone. Even so, forever’s
now’s never, and remember is just

the future occluded or dreaming. The day has come:
a dusty gust of disgusting August,

functioning as a people-mover. Maybe we’re going
nowhere, but wherever I go

I see us everywhere. On occasions of fancyness,
or out to eat. As if people, stark, now-ish

people themselves were the forever of nothing,
the everything of nobody,

the very same self of us all, after all, at long
last the first.