(Source: oldchum)
A small truth
Most town houses in San Francisco boast an ornately crafted cast iron gate on one side of the house, leading down a narrow walkway towards the back entrance. I always expect to peek through these and see ancient climbing vines swallowing the panels and thorny flowers grimacing back at you, in a beautiful rage. I press my face to cold metal and see nothing but blue, green, and black plastic. Trash cans.
If I ever feel better…
Presumptuous, scrumptious. Bizarre.
a needle wick and deep brown eyes. a need so sick it never tries.
so sick yet it never dies.
A penny minter’s illusion.
Soldiers before, during, and after just one year of war. Photos by Claire Felicie. It has gone on for more than a decade now with no end in sight. Next up, Iran?
[The heart
never fits
the journey.]
Always
one ends
first.
Jack Gilbert, from “Islands and Figs” (via the-final-sentence)
