Do they sense it these dead writers, when their books are read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope so.
I still can’t stand the fact that people are stereotyped by the actions of a few, especially Muslims. Hameed Armani is a national hero, but you won’t see the media mentioning him. Why? That’s obvious, we all must see all Muslims as ISIS members and terrorists. This brave man risked his life to save thousands, thousands of Americans no matter of religion or skin color.
there are so many layers to why this vine is immaculate. the slight blur of maple in the background. the halo effect on her fur. the warm autumn lighting. there are no flaws to this and i could watch it forever
I am not a graceful person. I am not a Sunday morning or a Friday sunset. I am a Tuesday 2am, I am gunshots muffled by a few city blocks, I am a broken window during February. My bones crack on a nightly basis. I fall from elegance with a dull thud, and I apologize for my awkward sadness. I sometimes believe that I don’t belong around people, that I belong to all the leap days that didn’t happen. The way light and darkness mix under my skin has become a storm. You don’t see the lightning, but you hear the echoes.
