Perfumes Inspired by Dead Writers
Ernest Hemingway: Salt water, rum, coconut and lime, cigar smoke, Spanish wine
F. Scott Fitzgerald: Gin, citrus, oak (prep school, amirite), in a champagne-flute shaped bottle with gold flecks in it
Jane Austen: Darjeeling tea, snowdrops…
the girls / pop champagne into the trees / and the heaviness parts / the waves—oh this is why / the Romans gave up / and died—
Shout out to Lolita for the suffering she endures on a daily basis.
Statistically, the average wild orca swims 100 miles per day. Given that her tank is 35ft long, this would indicate that she’d have to swim a staggering 150,85 circles per day just to reach her wild counter part’s mileage.
She is completely alone other than the dolphins she shares with who do not speak her dialect.
This whale breaks my heart. Please keep her in your thoughts.
So therefore I dedicate myself to myself, to my art, my sleep, my dreams, my labors, my suffrances, my loneliness, my unique madness, my endless absorption and hunger - because I cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being.
It’s the strangest feeling, realizing that this place you somehow found yourself in, No matter how alone you feel sometimes, is home. I feel it now. My brother and sister-law pulling into the parking lot outside the apartment and I, smile brimming, sweater wet with rain, waving, excited to show them home. The tall trees standing guard, watching over the little hill I live on, sheltering it from the greyness of the sky, scared the elevation might make it just one foot too close to the clouds. But the trees and the rain and the clouds are all apart of me now. Like knitted fabrics, tangled into my soul, stitched in over the tattered pieces of same-old-small-town. Their cloths hug my skin and whisper alternative rock songs in my ears when I sleep, or when I take the bus down Hillside, and stare out at the mountains beyond. The mountains, like the trees, are guardians, protecting me from the darkness when the light is gone and shining like a beacon of hope when the sun sprays its light on them. They scream love songs loudly across the ocean strait, stinging my ears and pushing me to open myself to the world, to open my heart. And my heart beats with the drumming of waves against driftwood and sandy, seismic shivers. The tide is my clock and the stars are maps to my dreams, at least that’s what the moon says, when it’s full. The sun sets, and even when I can’t see it through the fog, I know it winks at me. Daring me to see it in the morning, asking me what I’ll wear and where I’ll be. I wink back. I’ll be here. I’ll be home.