“Is the description of Paradise, which the righteous are promised, wherein are rivers of water unaltered, rivers of milk the taste of which never changes, rivers of wine delicious to those who drink, and rivers of purified honey, in which they will have from all [kinds of] fruits and forgiveness from their Lord, like [that of] those who abide eternally in the Fire and are given to drink scalding water that will sever their intestines?”
not 2 start discourse but pepsi should never have been invented it tastes like filthy river water and the only reason i’m drinking it is because the pizza company i ordered from didn’t stock coke and i needed something carbonated to write this essay
Fish in a pond, busy busy, lots to do, here and there. Dry as a desert outside, no place to go. Eat up, get stronger, think and hope, think and hope. Don’t look now! Oh, keep dreaming. There must be some other reason for your existence. Defiance tastes like life itself. No river. No water. Dry as a desert. Dirt is all around. The harvest moon is rising. Wraith are never-ending. I know the future. Come inside. I’ll show you your destiny … John Sheppard.
“The rusalka is a water spirit who climbs out of her river or lake or stream and into a tree, singing a song to lure men to her in the forest. Some versions of the story have it that she can’t ever leave the water entirely, and must leave a foot dangling, or a lock of her long and tangled hair. She is always naked and beautiful, asking men to come feed her so she can take their souls. Which they do–poor saps, they’re often glad to. Sometimes she’s the remnant of a drowned girl, seeking vengeance: a riff on the Hungry Ghosts of Japan, but looking only for bread and salt. (And, well, the life-force of strapping young men.) In Dvořák’s version (or anyway, in the libretto written by the Czech poet Jaroslav Kvapil) the rusalka is an immortal who falls in love with a human man and ends up sacrificing herself for him despite the fact that he betrays her. It’s basically The Little Mermaid but with a desperately unhappy ending: she even sells her voice to a witch. And although the man dies too, the rusalka sends his soul to heaven, while she, for her trouble, ends up as a wraith.”
Fiction, which is the ribbon pulled from a trembling mouth, which tells its truth with such defiance that everything forgotten will blaze, every joy burnished, every recollection of unexpected flight shared and passed from hand to cupped hand, carried warm next to the skin, recited for courage.