Feeling lost, and at first I scream,
“I’ve never seen so much outside about you,
Where have you been?”
Shouting, “Where the fuck have you been?”

But it doesn’t matter,
You should’ve got in touch when you felt my prayers.
I would’ve been there for you,
Only for you,
Waiting in the forest.

I have lost,
I have lost.

I have lost,
I have lost.

This is a sound of the haunting on the inside,
I still hear your screams,
They still haunt me,
In my dreams.

“Are you okay?” he cried,
“Get up and please don’t lie to me, don’t do it again.”
When I saw you I died,
You were on your knees and crawled to me, don’t do it again.

I have lost,
I have lost.

I have lost,
I have lost.

I’m so sick of always feeling half awake,
And I’m so tired of being set up for the end.

‘Cause you’ve done again,
You’ve done again,
You’ve done again.

When I found you,
I felt undone to my mind.

When I found you,
I felt undone to my mind

“Are you okay?” he cried,
“Get up and please don’t lie to me.”
When I saw you I died,
You were on your knees and crawled to me.

“Are you okay?” he cried,
“Get up and please don’t lie to me.”
When I saw you I died,
You were on your knees and crawled to me.

Made with SoundCloud
in-flight entertainment

Since everybody was so kind about the first ficlet, here’s a follow-up to 35B (aka the Olicity scared-of-flying!AU). Unbeta’d and mostly nonsense. Enjoy!

Ten minutes after take off.

Her hand feels empty.

Which is stupid, she reminds herself sternly. So stupid.

She held Oliver’s hand for a couple of minutes at most, just until the plane reached cruising altitude and she finally stopped hyperventilating. There’s absolutely no reason why she should be missing the feeling now, even if his calloused fingers had felt kind of amazing against her palm.

I mean, who even has hands like that? He must work with them, something physical, maybe a trade like … building beautiful hardwood furniture. Yes, that’s perfect. He’s Bill Pullman in While You Were Sleeping.

Keep reading

the astronomer and the poet, by jessica piazza

1. Why I stargaze

We share ninety-eight percent of our genetic code 
with rats. Over half with grain. The stars, then, 
must contain us somehow in their burning.

Something must contain this burning. Uptown, 
our physics building is sequestered in a bubble 
of certainty. And Harlem explodes around it.

We gaze because we’re so small, despite 
our need for choosing. We look skyward 
to leave the best question hanging – why

an amazing woman is always amazing, even 
with her head in her hands. It’s true; there is no 
way to know how small we are, or large.

2. Why I study the text

There is the same assurance in the open
page as in the open fist: closure 
must happen eventually.

In the open-ended argument we find 
one truth. This is all of us, we are so large 
that another person’s story can lacquer the soft

wood of history. We are so like the weed,
so like the blade of grass that our organic parable 
is biblical. There is no need to believe in us.

I believe what is written: that a wind lifted 
from a bay in Asia can travel a long and haunted 
journey to touch his face, to slip through my fingers

and loose a lock of hair from my forehead 
as it sinks into my tired palms. I believe in 
the inevitable. We read the texts closely

because we are so large that the answers locked 
in our most sacred physiology are not our own. 
They are buried in the skin we choose to reach for.

3. How they are logical

He knows how things work. This moves her. 
This is what makes her perpetually 
move. On his desk, a Newton’s Cradle –
silver balls always in motion. She will make 
the long trip uptown and back again and again 
to sit with him. She cannot understand how

we relate to stars, but she finds clues in small things, 
the mark a fingertip will leave on every object, the fine 
film of breath slicking surfaces. We are so large

there is something of ourselves in everything we touch. 
They talk for hours. He speaks of lenses and women 
and beyond. She is full of ink and bindings, the unknowable

we find in form, in limit. She reaches for his papers soaked 
in symbol, gauging the weight of planets. He fingers 
the square notebook she carries. They leave a trail of skin,

a path for them to follow to each other. Always, 
her voice reaches him and he is lifted. Returns to her 
again. She listens, and is lifted. Crashes back.

4. How they are illogical

Imagine a corner so large that being backed into it 
does not mean an ending, but the beginning of a journey 
toward the wall, toward the place where walls meet.

Sometimes it is impossible to know how things work. 
If there is perpetual motion why does he lie so still 
sometimes, why does she become hard and unmoved?

They lay their bodies down inside a telescope so large 
it’s like a tunnel – observers, if permitted, would see the planets
of their bodies orbiting. It is the only motion they both understand.

Flood of Red They Must Be Building Something 

I must say that I’ve been a fucking massive fan of Flood since someone on good old Paramorefans told me I could get their album for $1 (or something) and since then they haven’t exactly released a whole load of stuff. In fact, this is their first release since said album in 2010, as far as I’m aware. Anyway this is fucking awesome and I’m not entirely sure what else to say about it. Basically, just give it a listen and I’m pretty sure you won’t be disappointed. Especially if you’re a fan of The Xcerts (or the Scottish scene as a whole) or Brand New.