we bloom like puddles in rain. -gj
“Can I kiss you?” he asks. “I don’t know,” she answers, holding herself in the crisp night. “Well fuck you then.” -gj
one of my oldies. →
how to write like a man. →
note from a wedding.
Our journey is lit like the night sky. Each choice a burning reminder, a bright star seared into our memory canvas. Our journey a constellation, a sparkling picture of our defining moments. So we are artists, drawing new compositions on our light-speckled canvasses. We can burn new holes in the night and journey further into unforeseen galaxies; we can create new mythical beasts and heroes as they...
scene on a balcony.
“I’m up to my neck in all this single-girl bullshit,” she says. “Me too,” he replies. He sips his drink and watches two cars pass below. The sound is tidal. “But I’ll tell you, it won’t help matters any when I sleep with you.” “It’ll help some matters. Not others.” -gj
At what point are you supposed to draw the line between what you dream for yourself and what is sitting in front of you? -gj
light of day.
So soft, this moment. Your skin is satin in the daybreak, and dust floats, in currents of our breath, amid the aura. My fingertips glide down your arm, along your collarbone, to the small of your back, and your skin responds in goosebumps: little mountains and crevices, as if your body contains more— something powerful, glorious, terrifying. A nuclear winter. Then your skin...
A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate...– Henry David Thoreau
A man does what he must—in spite of personal consequences, in spite of...– Winston Churchill