seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from Russia
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Poland
seen from Russia
seen from China
seen from Maldives
seen from South Korea
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from China
seen from China
commingled
coming through the open car window
are the scent and roar or a grass blower
a man is covered with protective clothes: long sleeves on a plain work shirt, wide hat under which dart sunglassed eyes
through the noise is the hush sound of a breezed-through tree
or is it the slow rush of passing cars?
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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My contract at work recently ended. Here are some drawings I did while at the office.
fragments scrawled (3)
somewhere between death and annihilation our communion not quite disintegration but so charged only God can find or have us
fragments scrawled (4)
she climbed two mountains in a day and probably cured cancer on the way down the first and fixed the middle east descending the second, no selfie required
Doug Anderson: Poetry, Gossip, and War (from a notebook)
Doug Anderson: Poetry, Gossip, and War (from a notebook)
James Frey’s A Million Little Piecescontinues to sell and make money for his agent and publisher, who’ve disowned him. Initially he tried to sell the book as fiction but was rejected 17 times. Then he tried to sell it as memoir and it got snapped up. Apparently “the truth” is a commodity that the public seems desperate for thus the market for memoirs–somewhat in decline now. The book was…
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling
Song of Myself, 23
I don't believe in the sky. How can there be so much existence out there that we can't touch? Children of the universe, our dreams bigger than our machines and our eyes wider than we can reach? No, I believe it's not real. Those days, those days when there's no colour or change, a sheet of blank, they give me conviction. It's a lack, a glass jar with no lid. We're far too ambitious, or is it greed? Is this not enough for us oh-s-deserving and appreciative creatures? The night, they put a cover on us so that we believe there's been change, and the stars are just holes worn by our inability to let go of this fabricated masterpiece. I'm a real astrologer, I study the stars reflected in the eyes of false dreamers. I deal in the delusional, and wish upon nothing but my knees.
scraps, slow eyes
that slender neck, does your bedfellow kiss it often enough, as often as it deserves to be? soft cream hues and an exhale light paints the ceiling as we both wake up in the middle of the night and just lay
