Sorry What

sorry what

i hate when i browse math-related tags on this site and half the posts are people ranting about how much they hate her. why are you so mean to my wife

Bread

Guys, let's make a sandwich. I'll start:

Bread

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?

Reblogging to claim this quote

Elm

by Sylvia Plath

for Ruth Fainlight

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?

Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it. Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously, Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf, Echoing, echoing.

Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons? This is rain now, this big hush. And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets. Scorched to the root My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs. A wind of such violence Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

I let her go. I let her go Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery. How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me; All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I am incapable of more knowledge. What is this, this face So murderous in its strangle of branches? ——

Its snaky acids hiss. It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults That kill, that kill, that kill.

There is no shovel here

Playing a text adventure through DMs with a friend who's actually running the game via their relaying of everything between you and the program is kind of like gay sex; if you have very permissive definitions of 'gay', 'sex', 'like' and 'definitions'.

Nonstick broom