You don’t know why it happened and you wish you were alone. The beach is white and soft and deserted under a sky that looks innocent, and the priest, whom you’ve known only as your uncle, is dreary in his robe. You can feel his strength, from where he stands in front of the shore, and know that he has taken a job nobody deserves. He must memorialize the dead and comfort their kin, and...
Fuck Yeah, Poetry!: How to watch your brother die →
fuckyeahpoetry: When the call comes, be calm. Say to your wife, “My brother is dying. I have to fly to California.” try not to be shocked that he already looks like a cadaver. Say to the young man sitting by your brother’s side, “I’m his brother.” Try not to be shocked when the young man says, “I’m…
A poet’s work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides,...– Salman Rushdie (via pavorst)
Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?– Happy birthday to Albert Camus, born 1913. (via penamerican)
It’s a strange thing, how you can love somebody, how you can be all eaten up...– Madeleine L’Engle (via compassio)