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glove.jpg

slow realization that the world is not for me, and that for whatever reason, I will never be happy and honest and the same time. brimming, always producing and hoarding more and more love inside but there is no release. table, ivory elephant charm, rainbow, onion, hairdo, mollusk, violence, cuticle, melodrama, ditch, honey doily… none of it moves me

{everything is illuminated, by jonathan safran foer}

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I want you to see the hole in my shirt where your
heart went through like a Colt 45, and opened
a dream at the back of the neck. Here, let me unbutton it for you.
Notice the ribs, those sweet things you loved, notice the insides,
the parchment lampshades, the books, the furniture. Notice yourself
sitting, holding my hand on a winter night, notice the look in
my eyes, now close it all up and walk away.

Stumble, pretend you’re dead. Just for me, pretend you can be
hurt by something so simple as a failed emotion. Pretend you have seen
loss. For god’s sake what was I holding when you said good morning.

Pier Giorgio di Cicco

about.

girl from a tropical paradise living in a cold but beautiful little island between england and the normandy.

and that's her life in almost daily irrelevant photographs and stolen poetry.

HER OTHER STUFF:

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