December 2011
21 posts
The nights were as dark as I imagined them to be. Heavy and pure like a carbon blanket. But there were darker shadows, and they’d dance amidst the light of the paper moon, pressing against the wall, darkness against darkness. I felt the veins of my wrist pulse on the verge of bursting. I pressed a finger to the tender swell of skin, closed my eyes, and, hearing the pound of waves upon the...
“It is best not
to make everything a metaphor of one’s own life
but many have...”
– Dean Young, from “My Work Among the Insects” (via proustitute)
