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Literature Text
from somewhere over europe you wrote me,
saying, i am above the clouds & everything is black,
i miss you so much.
i drank wine alone & walked barefoot through the city.
i found it difficult to think about anything.
it rained every day for a week.
in germany, you wrote, i am sending this to you by carrier pigeon,
drink a beer for me tonight & put flowers in your hair.
you knew i hated beer, & you knew
that i knew you didn't really send the letter by carrier pigeon.
i thought you must have been slightly drunk.
i shredded a rose across our bed
& smoked 20 cigarettes;
one for every night
you couldn't touch me.
from austria, you sent, i lost my voice today.
i wrote my wrist itched last night on a scrap of paper,
put it in a bottle along with a raven's feather
& threw it in the thames.
from france, there was a polaroid of the eiffel tower
with i'm thinking about trains scribbled messily on the back.
i wandered the city at 2AM
& briefly considered sleeping on a park bench,
just for the hell of it.
i had nightmares while you were in spain.
later, you told me you'd written the phrase
"what do we do without each other"
on the wall of your hotel room without knowing why
& collapsed into bed after drinking more than you ought.
from romania, a note that read
i'm not worried & smelled like perfume.
i painted your face in the mirror,
& painted mine over it until we were
indistinguishable.
it sold for several hundred pounds at auction.
from slovakia & the czech republic, nothing;
i painted a sunset on the wall
where the mirror used to be & wrote
i am unable to handle most things above it.
there was no way for me to sell the piece
as i had neither the means nor the money
to tear down the wall.
from italy, you sent a picture of you,
smiling, dated from several days before,
with several complicated phrases in italian on the back,
& a separate piece of paper with i am coming home
scrawled in english at the bottom.
i curled in the corner of the bed,
determined not to wait for the train.
saying, i am above the clouds & everything is black,
i miss you so much.
i drank wine alone & walked barefoot through the city.
i found it difficult to think about anything.
it rained every day for a week.
in germany, you wrote, i am sending this to you by carrier pigeon,
drink a beer for me tonight & put flowers in your hair.
you knew i hated beer, & you knew
that i knew you didn't really send the letter by carrier pigeon.
i thought you must have been slightly drunk.
i shredded a rose across our bed
& smoked 20 cigarettes;
one for every night
you couldn't touch me.
from austria, you sent, i lost my voice today.
i wrote my wrist itched last night on a scrap of paper,
put it in a bottle along with a raven's feather
& threw it in the thames.
from france, there was a polaroid of the eiffel tower
with i'm thinking about trains scribbled messily on the back.
i wandered the city at 2AM
& briefly considered sleeping on a park bench,
just for the hell of it.
i had nightmares while you were in spain.
later, you told me you'd written the phrase
"what do we do without each other"
on the wall of your hotel room without knowing why
& collapsed into bed after drinking more than you ought.
from romania, a note that read
i'm not worried & smelled like perfume.
i painted your face in the mirror,
& painted mine over it until we were
indistinguishable.
it sold for several hundred pounds at auction.
from slovakia & the czech republic, nothing;
i painted a sunset on the wall
where the mirror used to be & wrote
i am unable to handle most things above it.
there was no way for me to sell the piece
as i had neither the means nor the money
to tear down the wall.
from italy, you sent a picture of you,
smiling, dated from several days before,
with several complicated phrases in italian on the back,
& a separate piece of paper with i am coming home
scrawled in english at the bottom.
i curled in the corner of the bed,
determined not to wait for the train.
Literature
Fire and Water
It was raining in Lancaster on September 3rd 1555, and Jane Ask loved the earthy smell that it coaxed out of the soil.
She wiped away the sheen of rainwater from her forehead with the back of her hand and set her small basket of nettles down by the front door. Later she would dry out the leaves and reduce them to a powder; the substance worked wonders on small wounds which refused to stop bleeding.
Jane had always been something of an herbalist. Growing up with only a father, and two older brothers from his first marriage, she had spent the majority of her childhood outdoors. Now practically a spinster at the age of twenty-two, she knew the
Literature
Spelling Counts
The line read:
"Fallow your heart",
I wondered what more there was to say.
Fallow your heart, leave it
empty and waiting for a season
so love can grow, nourished,
in a replenished, whole ground.
Fallow your heart so it does not become
Worn and barren with overuse.
The line read "fallow your heart",
but the poem, overworked,
meant only "follow".
Please remember that spelling counts.
Literature
Text Messages to No One
Hey haven't talked to you in a while.
What's up?
==>send message?
/end
==>save message? y/n
/n
I saw that you got
/end
==>save message y/n
/n
Its been a while.
Maybe we could hang out?
==>send message?
/end
==>save message y/n
/n
Wow, I cant believe it's been so long since we talked!
What happened, do you think? Lets talk and
/end
/end
==>message autosaved
I miss you.
==>send message?
/end
==>save message y/n
/y
Today I thought about that tree in your backyard.
And how we used to climb it to get on the roof of ur garage.
We had some good times.
==>send message?
/end
==>save message y/n
/y
I havent been u
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7/21/13
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"always in my thoughts you are
always in my dreams you are
i got your voice on tape, i got your spirit in a photograph
always out of reach you are"
the start of something beautiful - porcupine tree
"always in my thoughts you are
always in my dreams you are
i got your voice on tape, i got your spirit in a photograph
always out of reach you are"
the start of something beautiful - porcupine tree
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Comments9
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I adore this so much that it's almost too much passion for a fourteen year old to handle. Juts, teh post cards and the phrases they wrote. They seem so tiny and insignifcant like "im thinking about trains" when they coulld be writing huge letters of love back and forth but what's best is that I can see what's unspoken between tehm in these little phrases they scrawled and just wow good job!