was hajrbrush

pack your bags! 🧳

When I saw you ahead I ran two blocks shouting your name then realizing it wasn’t you but some alarmed pretender, I went on running, shouting now into the sky, continuing your fame and luster. Since I’ve been incinerated, I’ve oft returned to this thought, that all things loved are pursued and never caught, even as you slept beside me you were flying off. At least what’s never had can’t be lost, the sieve of self stuck with just some larger chunks, jawbone, wedding ring, a single repeated dream, a lullaby in every elegy, descriptions of the sea written in the desert, your broken umbrella, me claiming I could fix it.

Alice Notley, "The Poetry of Everyday Life" (1988)

Shiina Ringo.

reading in bed. painting by marta astrain.

Me

— Christa Wolf, Cassandra: A Novel and Four Essays (tr. Jan van Heurck)

Photograph by Annie Leibovitz, Pilgrimage (Random House, 2011)