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#Unlocking Memories by Writing Poetry
madiganjay · 1 year
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I heard a whistle today while walking through the grocery store
And suddenly, like a breath of fresh air, I was transported back to my youth
To friends I have not seen in years, their young faces bright with light
To summer nights full of warmth and laughter, where it was just us and the now and the carefree privilege such wild youth brings
There was memory in that simple sound
An entire youth of recklessness and secrets and the not knowing of oneself
But being so eager to leave your mark
I looked around, seeing if I could find the source of the whistle, the calling card my friend used to use so we could all find each other
I looked to see if my old friend and I had crossed paths again, if I might still see that familiar part of him underneath all the new growth of years gone by
Maybe I was trying to chase after the happiness my young heart had so carelessly taken for granted
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albertxylin · 2 months
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Chill Mist Intrusions
It's cold and humid. The clouds outside seem to drift through the window, Running clammy fingers over my skin. It is grey, Not in a drab way, But in the way a factory warehouse is lit by hollow halogen lights, In the way a fish market with plastic corrugated roofing seems to suck out the warmth from the sun Until the only thing left is the smell of brine and seafood that sticks to your soul. There are massive tanks of carp and crustaceans, And the water is almost green, Almost opaque, Almost alien. There is condensation on the glass, And a fish stares at me with dead eyes.
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Good Omens Fic Rec: take me as your wife
You reached for my glass to pour me some wine, and in doing so, brushed my hand for a half-second with your ring finger. Only, it was not the back of my palm that you brushed, but my sloping knuckles; this is when I knew that it was the cut of my jaw you really wanted to touch, that you had chosen to indicate you wanted it with the finger used by many to display the glinting vow of marriage. You poured, and I watched, and the tranquil waters of your eyes stilled their rippling before me, and you were swiftly and silently taking me as your wife. At long last and yet far too soon, only for tonight and yet once and for all, in a century which was at once so impatiently modern and so soothingly traditional. Or: In the 1750s, Crowley stumbles upon Aziraphale at a country inn, away from the hustle and bustle and the prying eyes of London town. The most romantic of afternoons ensues.
Length: 1,931 words
AO3 Rating: Explicit / Spice Level 🔥🔥🔥🔥
Best for: At Home, After Dark, Romance
Triggers: None
Read it here, fic by ineffabildaddy
*Minor Spoilers* So I knew Sam was writing a fic for my birthday, but I didn't expect to end up sobbing once I had read it. I couldn't compose myself for an embarrassingly long time afterward. I am so touched and grateful for this new friendship, and I felt a little overwhelmed by the love and quality of this piece.
Please, before you read this, set the stage with the recording I prompted for this fic. It's a piece by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, read by Michael Sheen, reminiscing about a past meeting. Sam took this prompt and soared. It perfectly captures the atmosphere, the longing, the desire, and the intimacy of the reading.
We join Crowley as she (can be read as either male or female presenting Crowley, but I'll use she/her pronouns here) recounts a night spent at an inn with Aziraphale. To me, it feels as though I am reading a letter or diary entry by Crowley, as she speaks directly to Aziraphale, telling him her thoughts and desires. Her longing is so intense that she imagines herself as part of every morsel he consumes, envisioning it’s her body he’s touching, not merely the napkins; it's her thighs he’s parting, not just a soft loaf of bread. Crowley (like with the ox ribs) finds her desire in watching Aziraphale’s indulgent consumption, her need for release growing unbearable and distracting. But this is not just Crowley being turned on by innocent actions. She is reacting to Aziraphale’s intentional signals. It is an unspoken conversation, a promise of what’s to come. He tells her with the barest of touches, and slightest subtext, that she is his. Finally, when she assumes that the night will soon be over, she is instead handed a key. "A key to a room downstairs." Barriers and doors unlocked, they will consummate their unspoken vow to each other. Their need and devotion temporarily greater than the threat of Heaven, Hell, or God herself.
This story is not only erotic but gorgeous. One of my favorite qualities of Sam's writing is how he gives us languorous poetry then snaps back into unabashed smut, like a kiss that suddenly bites. This is vivid imagery and prose, yet still has a dreamy haze to it. Like a romanticized version of Crowley's memory. A friend described it to me as a hot summer’s night, the smell of grass and rain, a restless yearning. It’s a memory that craves. Longing for the moment they will reunite. And of course they will, they’ll always belong to one other. I love this story so much. And sure, I may be very biased because I love Sam. But I truly and genuinely believe in this story. And because it's my birthday fic you all should read this. Birthday girl rules sorry. Thank you Sam, you are such a talented writer, and a wonderful person. I'm so honored to receive this gift.
Read it here, fic by ineffabildaddy
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rriavian · 6 months
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For a prompt from @windsweptinred for the flower prompts we're doing with @bobbole. Still unfinished but I already had a short wip that the prompt worked really well with, and it was the kick I needed to get going with it a little more. Still very very rough but thought I'd share :) Hope you like it! <3
The Corinthian and Calliope: Rose, yellow, A murderer's confession, Prompt Jealousy—
After his failure to persuade Ethel Cripps to work with him the Corinthian seeks out another who might have cause to seek revenge against Dream.
Calliope surprises him.
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Calliope knows the Corinthian, of course.
She had met Dream’s masterpiece while she was married.
She had heard of him long before, an impression built by Dream’s soft smile, the excitement glittering subtle in his eyes as he told her of his latest creation, a design he traced in sand as if proud to show off even an outline. Calliope has not seen the Corinthian since—to be expected, given both how she’d parted ways with Morpheus and the reality of her current situation—a surprise when she hears the door to her room open, sees a bloodstained knife glitter in the light. Next it catches in golden blond hair, scatters from the gleam of teeth; a memory in that too, of Oneiros and his painstaking hunt for exactly the right shades, his dedication to it, unwilling to give anything less than his very best to every single thing he made.
Calliope must admit she still admires him for that.
Then her eyes find the changes, the additions, the soft cream of the Corinthian’s coat, the dark opaque sunglasses hiding biting mouths. There is a deliberate slowness in how he now cleans the bloodied knife, how he wants her to watch it, to think about what must have happened to the only other occupant in Richard Madoc’s house. Calliope can feel that her captor isn’t dead, can feel it in the chains that keep her trapped here, knows exactly why this nightmare has approached her like this.
The Corinthian is a story stood close enough that she can read her former husband’s writing in the blurb, a compliment to the Corinthian’s own script when she reads further to find his finely printed prose.
He wants leverage.
“Corinthian.” Calliope greets calmly. “It has been some time.”
“Fancy finding you here.” The Corinthian replies with a sharp, mocking grin, not even bothering to pretend this wasn’t planned. “An oddly poetic coincidence, given what’s happened to Dream.”
He thinks to lure her into asking.
Calliope won’t.
“Do not speak to me of poetry.”
The Corinthian pauses. “You already know, don’t you?”
“That Oneiros has been captured? Yes.”
It amuses her that the Corinthian thought to tell her, thought to begin the game with the upper hand. The Fates had filled in more details, had gloated when she’d called for help, but even before that Calliope had known that Morpheus was missing. Of course she’d known, how could she not?, how could any immortal remain unawares to the disappearance of Dream of the Endless?
"He's free now." The Corinthian replies, leans against the door frame as if a slouch will make the words less targeted, throws hope at her and watches for a flinch. "Do you think he'll come for you?"
Calliope must admit that makes her stiffen.
"Do you think he will if I call him?"
A shrug.
There's tension though.
There's a minute grimace trying to twist the Corinthian's lips, a page torn out before Calliope can read it. The grin remains. He stays smug, grounds himself to it, more than a little overconfident because he’s gloating far too soon.
“I did it, you know. Strengthened the trap.” The Corinthian says slyly, watches her from where he's still leaning in the doorway, watches how Calliope sits on this bed in Richard Madoc's house while a few feet a way a door has long since stood unlocked. “It’s my fault he was there for so long.”
Now it's Calliope's turn to shrug. “So?”
The Corinthian seems entertained by her tone, even as it confuses him, even as he tries to get his teeth around it. “I want to ensure he’ll be gone a lot longer.”
“Then I wish you well in finding the luck you are hoping for, because you will certainly be needing it.” Calliope replies coolly.
“C’mon,” The Corinthian has been lazily circling his point like a vulture, like a wolf guiding prey towards a favoured terrain, now still as he prepares to lunge. “Aren’t you the least bit tempted?”
“By what?”
“Revenge.”
He’s said it because the Corinthian thinks it's something of what she wants. He thinks it’s bait that isn’t possible to resist, thinks it because there is a similar desire in him, sitting unrealised in his chest like a stone. Calliope wonders what her former husband did, wonders if it even matters, because she also knows that revenge is a second, a flicker, a blink in response to a blinding. It’s too fast, too instant to really register for someone as long lived as her; she cannot feast on something so small.
“Is that what this is to you? Revenge?”
He laughs. “Well, not only.”
“Tell me what else.” Calliope commands. “If you want my help then tell me why.”
The Corinthian thinks faster than hesitation can register.
He switches plans at the same smooth speed, and it’s a truth he’d not wanted to lead with, bait he was saving only for a moment suited to the greater power of its sting. “I won’t go back to the Dreaming. I quite like it here, and so it’s not just about revenge. It’s about freedom.”
How like a nightmare to dream of a concept even humanity longs for.
How like a nightmare to think the guarantee of it can be found in their world. 
“If you can only be so when Morpheus is trapped,” Calliope says; sat there on this bed in a thin nightdress, chained to a mortal by the laws of her own kind, chained to a man who ‘needs’ her gifts to give him the life he thinks he deserves. “If your own freedom relies on the imprisonment of another—"
She shrugs.
“Then can you really say you’re free at all?”
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scisaacweek · 1 year
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Scisaac Week 2023 (July 2nd to 8th)
Scisaac Week is the celebration of everything Scott/Isaac!
This is a week dedicated to creating and supporting Scisaac content. All types of contributions are accepted, whether they be fics, art, gifs, playlists, edits, or whatever else you can come up with.
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The following prompts are merely suggestions that you can use or remix to your heart’s content:
Writing Prompts
DAY 1: Missing Scenes or Alternate Canon || Things that should have been
DAY 2: Future fic or College AU || Building a future together
DAY 3: Road Trip/Vacation or Bed Sharing || Bound by situational proximity
DAY 4: Alpha/Beta or Established Relationship || Cherishing solid foundations
DAY 5: Hurt/Comfort or 5 + 1 Things || Circumstances require solutions
DAY 6: Friends-to-Lovers or First Date || Deciding to finally make it happen
DAY 7: Fairytale/Mythology or Magic || A life even more fantastical
Graphics Prompts
DAY 1: Favorite moments(s) or Lacrosse || Going through memory lane
DAY 2: Emotions or Things unsaid || Exploring all the feels
DAY 3: Parallels or Favorite AUs || Matching patterns
DAY 4: Canon re-draw/fix-it or Scars || Digging into wounds
DAY 5: Body Parts or Lyrics/poetry || A sum of their parts
DAY 6: Contrasts or Nightmares || The darkness and the light
DAY 7: Power/Vulnerability or Fantasies || Unlocking the mind
PLEASE NOTE: If you end up inspired to make a graphic from a writing prompt, or vice versa, that’s allowed! You can post multiple works per day, or just pick and choose which days to contribute to. The more Scisaac feels, the better!
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Please tag your contributions with #scisaacweek2023. You can also tag @scisaacweek to improve the chances your post is found.
Ask box is open if you have any questions.
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yourfavegrl · 4 months
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I’m sorry to break the news but writing and poetry isn’t just kind words compressed together to hit a soft spot in your heart that makes you feel warm and fuzzy. No, writing is releasing the darkest parts of yourself that you’re too ashamed to utter to another soul in the flesh. It’s the accumulation of tragedy, and sadness, and heartbreak, and love, and happiness and chaos all intertwined, and pulled from a spot so deep within that to read it on paper can sometimes bring tears to your eyes. It’s the time…and sometimes trauma collected since adolescence to where you are now that can’t be kept in any longer. It’s the outpour of a life you once knew, and memories that have been unlocked. To be a writer is to know beauty but also know pain. How else can you write of something so breathtakingly beautiful if you haven’t had your breath short and hard to grasp onto as well? To be human and feel all it’s essence, of every spectrum. A beautiful yet gruesome combination.
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gunkreads · 11 months
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For those of you who feel bad about being gibbering messes when discussing stories that mean a lot to you, I want to share a story about the beginnings of my literary analysis journey:
At one point in my education, I read the book Smiles to Go by Jerry Spinelli. I liked it quite a bit, but there's one particular scene--with the eponymous quote--that stuck with me. The story is kind of told from the perspective of a kid who's friends with who I'd consider the "main character". The main character is a cool kid with a shit life who's failing school. They have a poetry reading, which turns out to be the first assignment the main character has done in a long time. He's reading "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening", and, as you may guess, misremembers the last line as "for I have promises to keep/and smiles to go before I weep".
Anyway, I remember reading that and thinking "wow. That really. Is important. It sure means something. I know exactly what it means." I remember trying to tell my dad about it, all excited that I'd unlocked this new part of my brain that Understood Themes, but the only thing I could articulate was "I feel like that really means something".
So yeah, you get better with practice. You just have to be willing to bleed some of the joy out of the story in order to get more fun out of it. You'll run into stories that you bleed dry and never find anything worthwhile in, and it'll change you forever. You'll spend a year cutting and dissecting this story and cast and find out that all that love you used to have for it is gone--but you expressed all the love you could've had by putting in that effort.
There's nothing wrong with picking apart your favorites. I believe that critical analysis is one of the greatest ways to express love for fiction--right in there next to stuff like annual rereads and writing fanfiction. If, in the course of that analysis, you grow to dislike the story, that's fine. The love is always there in the past, crystallized in memory. Try to learn to look back on it fondly and without regret.
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entropic-abyss · 10 months
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A Trickster's Grin
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A/N Day 8 of attempting poetry. Why on Earth did I write this? I'm supposed to be studying... My mind was fuzzy, clouded by thoughts of whatever this is XD. I hope you all enjoy! Genre: Poetry. Warnings: None. Word Count: 157
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There lies a man whose smile casts a spell.
In the realm of mischief and wonder, he dwells.
Jesting and sharp, his mind is a maze,
He draws people near in a silver-tongued haze.
..............................................................................................................................
His smile, a riddle, an enigmatic tease,
A puzzle box of secrets, crafted with ease.
It curls upon his lips, mischievous and sly,
Inviting you to ponder, to question why.
..............................................................................................................................
His smile, a whisp of tantalizing allure,
Drawing you in, making your senses endure.
It lingers in memory, an echo of delight,
A testament to a man both sharp and bright.
..............................................................................................................................
His smile, a weapon, a cunning disguise,
Masking the genius within his guise.
But those who pay heed to his playful expression,
Unlock a world, full of wit and confession.
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There lies a man whose smile casts a spell,
Intelligent and cunning, his mischief compels.
So, if you dare to enter his intriguing domain,
His smile will bewitch you, again and again.
..............................................................................................................................
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captainofmischief · 2 years
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I am the biggest Steven x Layla shipper. Can you write something short & sweet & intimate for them? It can be literally anything you want. I've been dying to see you write more Steven. Thanks lovely :)
Je t’Adore
A/N: please enjoy Layla falling victim to the charms of Steven reciting French poetry (suggestive romantic fluff set after the events of the Moon Knight series/potentially leading into a smutty part 2 should there be any demand)
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Layla sits quietly, leaning against Steven and holding his hand as he calmly recites one of their favorite poems from memory. The two of them have been getting better acquainted and she’s grown quite fond of his sweet, accented voice over the weeks. It’s comforting somehow.
“N’écris pas ces deux mots que je n’ose plus lire-”
Their eyes meet and Layla is utterly smitten by the innate passion dripping from his lips. He does not speak with the intent of being seductive, yet there’s something inherently alluring in his soft tone; an awe and reverence for the words coming out of his mouth- as if he can’t quite believe that someone else thought to arrange them in such a way. It’s that very childlike wonder in Steven that warms Layla’s heart.
“Il semble que ta voix les répand sur mon cœur-” he continues, smiling down as the woman in his lap seemingly hangs on his every word. Squeezing his fingers lightly, Layla brings Steven’s hand to her cheek, nuzzling into him and relishing in the warmth of his skin. There’s a slight, nearly imperceptible hitch in his breath, but she can feel the lurch of his chest beneath her as evidence of the effect she’s having on him.
Steven inhales deeply, noting the fresh hint of apple that he’s come to recognize as being from Layla’s shampoo. He loves the way she smells. Whenever she’s near, he feels as if he’s been transported to another realm- one of pure peace and beauty beyond that of even the field of reeds. Focus. Clearing his throat, Steven continues, voice growing raspy with affection. “Que je les vois brûler… à travers ton sourire…”
It’s becoming increasingly difficult to recall the words. “Il semble-“ he swallows thickly, distracted by the feel of her soft flesh as Layla strokes the back of his hand with her thumb. She doesn’t mean to find joy in Steven being overwhelmed, but his flustered innocence is undeniably adorable. Sitting up, she turns to face him on the couch. “Go on,” she encourages with a smile.
“Uhm…” Steven interjects as his brain buffers for a moment. “qu’un baiser les empreint-”
Layla leans in, gently framing his face with her hands and gazing into his wide eyes with pure adoration. Blimey, she’s close now. Her presence is intoxicating. “les empreint…” Steven repeats, now utterly breathless and unable to focus. “…sur mon coeur-”
Before he can finish, Layla presses her lips against his mouth, fingers weaving into his thick, luscious hair. She doesn’t hold back. The kiss is deep and wanting, unlocking something they’d both previously held back in each other’s company.
Steven groans lightly, fighting the urge to pause for breath as he returns her kisses with enthusiasm. Despite his quiet nature, Mr. Grant is incredibly perceptive and eager to please when it comes to affection. His gentility is clearly rooted in a deep sense of awe and devotion rather than the inept timidity many folks mistake it for in daily life.
It’s Layla who finally pulls back out of necessity, breathing hard as she lets her forehead fall against his. There’s still a hint of wondrous disbelief in Steven’s dazed expression no matter how many times they share an intimate moment like this. Frankly, it’s incredibly precious. And Layla secretly hopes that never changes- as if the exhilarating spark of young love might never fade between them.
Her hand slides down his neck, and she can feel his elevated pulse beneath her fingertips as she considers her next move. She knows what she wants, and yet Layla is almost afraid to speak- in fear of shattering the moment with the wrong words. Is it too soon? Will her forwardness overwhelm him?
Rather than allowing her doubts to consume her, Layla grounds herself by recalling how they’d gotten to this point in the first place. Of course!
With a calming breath, she leans in close until she finds his ear, nose brushing along his cheek on the way. “N’écris pas,” Layla whispers softly, finishing the poem for Steven.
At first his brow furrows, as if he can’t quite believe his own hearing. But his face soon lights up in unexpected delight, pulling back to look at her properly as he commits this perfect moment to memory. There couldn’t possibly be another woman on the planet better suited to him. No one as keen and capable. No one as patient and understanding. No one as fierce and bold and beautiful. Steven doesn’t fully understand what she sees in him, but he trusts the feeling deep in his gut enough to wholeheartedly confess, “I love you, Layla El Faouly.”
Layla smiles broadly at the man before her, heart bursting with emotion. “And I love you, Steven Grant.”
Their mouths meet again- this time of equal volition. Steven grips her waist and holds her close as their tongues brush against one another, but it’s not nearly enough to satisfy the desire that’s been building in Layla all evening. Or rather, since the moment they’d met. Her hands seek out the hem of his shirt in a frenzied attempt at communicating her intent. Steven obliges as she pulls him forward, breaks off the kiss and slides the garment up and over his head, leaving his hair in an incredibly sexy, tousled state.
Oh. Jesus. Layla feels her cheeks warm and pulse quicken, which is absurd given the familiarity of her husband’s body. And yet, how many people can say they’ve slept with a lover for the first time, twice? She tries not to dwell on the complexities of their situation. Steven deserves her full attention.
Chest heaving, Layla swiftly removes her own top and relishes in how Steven’s adoring gaze takes in her partially-unclothed form.
“Layla. Are you sure, love?” he prods, wanting to be respectful before they continue. A brief flicker of doubt crosses his visage as his eyes drift sideways in fear that Marc might make an impromptu appearance.
“Yes, Steven. Please. Look at me.” She takes his chin in hand and redirects his attention. “It’s just us tonight, okay? And I want you, Steven…” she requests with a needy breathlessness.
“You have me,” he replies simply, rising from the couch, taking her hand and guiding Layla toward the bed.
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quietplaced · 1 year
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1, 12, 19, and one question of your choosing for the weird writing asks
thank you so much meg!!! 🤍
1. What font do you write in? Do you actually care or is that just the default setting?
i mean my default setting is actually handwriting!!!!! hehehe but if i am writing digitally which is very rarely i go for the typewriter font or just good ol times new roman for my college traumatized brain
12. If a genie offered you three writing wishes, what would they be? Btw if you wish for more wishes the genie turns all your current WIPs into Lorem Ipsum, I don’t make the rules
not the lorem ipsum lol
oh my god to never stop writing i guess!!!!!
ok wish 1: to never have writers block ever again
wish 2: to be able to come up with stories/plots lol i am Not good with narrative
wish 3: to write constantly!
19. Tell me a story about your writing journey. When did you start? Why did you start? Were there bumps along the way? Where are you now and where are you going?
oooo usually i'd say i started writing (poetry!) when i was 15 but recently i realized that when i was in 4th fucking grade i wrote this sort of romance novel story thing in my pucca lil notebook and my classmates would read it and then i'd continue the story and give them updates and stuff lol unlocking that memory made me realize how much i've been writing my entire life! i also had many many journals when i was a kid
so yeah lots of poetry at 15 then 16-17 i ~fell in love~ and had so much in my head that i naturally started writing poetic prose and then i entered college and basically didn't have as much time to write or to even be inspired ! so i'd say college years were super ,,,, bumpy i guess. luckily the pandemic helped me write a bit more bc i had such a shitty time! and i was diagnosed w anxiety and depression! lol but by then my prose just did not exist and i only wrote poems
but last year i started taking my writing more seriously! which has required writing prose and it has definitely been a huge challenge for me but it's also been a very enriching and exciting process ❤️‍🩹 (i'm gonna be a published author in around a month!)
now that i'm done with college i am PRAYING adult life doesn't take it away from me. sometimes i think it's the only thing that keeps me going 🥲
39. What keeps you writing when you feel like giving up?
to ellaborate a bit on that last sentence, and i know this may be quite dramatic but even if i want to give up on every single thing in life, writing is what makes it all make sense. writing itself keeps me writing lol
weird writing asks
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songsforthepierce · 1 year
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Odd Tracks: Emo Kid - Adam and Andrew
So as I decided to not review a certain gamer song by a musician who gets into twitter fights with anyone critiquing him since I didn’t want to give him more attention (as of now, I may want to make a post talking him and making a bigger point about his behavior but I want to wait awhile for that). As I heard his early discography one of his songs unlocked a long buried memory within me, “This song reminds me of Emo Kid for some reason”.
Content warning/trigger warning for light discussions/mentions of self harm, homophobia, transphobia, mention of lgbtphobic slurs and use of, suicide, and eating disorders. I get this is a stupid comedy song but I don’t want to ruin someone’s day, all right?
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I don’t really remember how I originally found this song but I probably found it in an amv or something. This song is very much a time capsule in subject matter, the sound, and how it handles said subject matter. This is a comedy song about well the emo scene at the time. The song did came out in 2006 after all. The first half is dumb but does give me a light smile. It feels like a parody song I would find on youtube. The “Blood Red Romance” is so clearly meant to be My Chemical Romance. It is just poking fun at the subculture with the look, the moody stereotype, an-
I'm an emo kid Non-conforming as can be You'd be non-conforming too if you look just like me I have paint on my nails and makeup on my face I'm almost emo enough to start shaving my legs Cause I feel real deep when dressing in drag
Wait, what was that last line? Was that meant to refer to the fact that there were guys in the emo community who would come off effeminate to androgynous or-
I call it freedom of expression Most just call me a fag Our dudes look like chicks and chicks look like dykes Cause emo is one step below transvestite
OH, well then...casual homophobia and transphobia sure was a lot more common in 2006 (not saying it still isn’t around but you know what I mean). ..this part really did not age well. Which like I know comedy songs have a 50% chance of either aging fine, to somewhat okay, or just not well at all. The fact these two straight (as far as I know) guys just casually said fag, dykes, and transvestite is...making me concerned if outside the song they would just use it regularly back then.
I'm dark and sensitive with low self-esteem The way I dress makes everyday feel like Halloween I have no real problems But I like to make believe I stole my sister's mascara Now I'm grounded for a week
The last two lines are funny I will give it that. But okay, like the part I understand that it is meant to be making fun of like emo teens and how they “don’t have any real problems” which I do remember that critique from back then. Though most emo kids i knew when I was an emo teen myself came from neglectful, dysfunctional, to abusive homes...sooo uhhhh...
Sulking and writing poetry are my hobbies I can't get through a Hawthorne Heights album without sobbing Girls keep breaking up with me It's never any fun They say they already have a pussy They don't need another one
Oh god, I can literally feel this aging badly as the song goes on. Also wait, why did they make a parody name for MCR but then said the actual band name for Hawthorne Heights? I know the earlier part of the song was like making a joke about how edgy the names of emo bands can be but actually you know what? I don’t care. I am moving on to the more important part which is the whole making fun of a guy for being effeminate which oh boy was that a common thing people made fun of emo for. 
Stop my breathing and slit my throat I must be emo I don't jump around when I go to shows I must be emo
You know it is hard getting back into this verse as a reoccurring part of the song when I keep getting hit by lines and verses that make me recoil in my seat. Also, the suicide imagery I know is meant to reference how emo had a huge stereotype of depression and people being suicidal when like were there people in the scene who were depressed and were suicidal? Yes. I think there is a better way to like bring up how there were people in the community who romanticized such but I don’t think the song was going for that. Also this is not the only references to suicide in the song with the line, “ I play guitar and write suicide notes”
My life is just a black abyss.. Ya know It's so dark
You know I would find this more funny if I just wasn‘t still recovering from how badly aged this song is turning out to be. Was I expecting this song to actually age well? Not really, but I didn’t think it was like this.
And it's suffocating me Grabbing a hold of me And tightening its grip Tighter than a pair of my little sister's jeans Which look great on me by the way When I get depressed I cut my wrist in every direction Hearing songs about getting dumped gives me an erection
I know the “Tighter than a pair of my little sister’s jeans” is meant to reference how skinny a lot of the guys in the scene would be. Like concerning skinny. I won’t deny there was fatphobia in the community and there were people in it who had eating disorders. Yet another jokey reference to self harm-Wait...what was that last line?
I write in a live journal And wear thick rimmed glasses
Wasn’t the thick rimmed glasses more of first wave to at the least second wave emo? Like really early emo? I guess that type of emo was still around. Also, I am surprised they didn’t say myspace since a lot of emo kids did use that and I tend to associate myspace with the emo era. I guess I should be grateful this part has nothing really bad in it. Like I know the two lines afterward are about the narrator telling his friends he bleeds black and cries in classes which okay whatever. I don’t care. But knowing this song when something bad happens-
I'm just a bad, cheap imitation of goth You can read me 'Catcher in the Rye' And watch me jack off I wear skin tight clothes while hating my life If I said that I like girls I'd only be half right
Oh here we go! Okay so there were goths and non-goths at the time who called emo that. There was also emo people who called emo teens and those who were more into Hawthorne Heights, My Chemical Romance, and other popular emo pop punk “mall emo” similar to how there were goths who called goth kids into musicians suck as Rob Zombie, Marilyn Manson (eugh), Slipknot, and such as “mall goth”. Also, yet again another weird reference to getting turned on by suffering. I know the singer is comparing the narrator to the main character of the book as both are seen as whiny when like the whole point of the book is it is about a teen going through a really shitty situation and not coping with trauma well. Oh and the narrator I guess is meant to be bi? Diversity win or loss or whatever.
I look like I'm dead and dress like a homo I must be emo Screw Xbox I play old school Nintendo I must be emo
Another casual homophobia moment I see. Also, what is with the Xbox and old school Nintendo line? Was that actually a thing in emo? Was that part of the subculture? Because I don’t remember that part when I dressed emo to light goth as a teen. Maybe it was and I just somehow I missed that.
Me and my friends all look like clones I must be emo
You know this could be a good critique on how even though emo is suppose to be nonconformist similar to goth but the people in both expect you to look a certain way so therefore everyone looks the same. But little bit too late on that and I think there are better people who could critique this.
My parents don't get me ya know They think I'm gay just because they saw me kiss a guy Well, a couple guys But still, I mean it's the 2000's Can't two or four dudes make out with each other without being gay? I mean, chicks dig that kinda thing anyways
Oh my god we couldn’t ended without yet another homophobic shit. I was about to ask how much longer this song was but it actually isn’t that long when thinking about it...but I feel like 3:03 is too long for this.
I feel like tacos
Look, I am sorry last line of the song where I almost typed “like” as “liek” you cannot save this song.
Well this song was...something. I remember I would listen to it as a teen and didn’t have a problem with it...but I was a stupid edgy teen so there’s that. Like again, I didn’t expect this being good when I went back to it in 2023 as an adult. I knew even back then the song was dumb but saw it as silly dumb. But now I am just like, “Wow, this song sure is a time capsule of the era”.
During my search for the song I did find the musicians official youtube channel where they posted their performance of the song and I found their facebook page. Oh and their myspace page. They haven’t been online in a long time. That or just don’t really post much nowadays. You know, I do wonder how they look back on this song or any of their other music since 2006? Also, there is a different version of this song where the beat is replaced with sounds from super nintendo. I remember in existed but I can’t find it. Like, I could look deeper but I really don’t care enough to at this point. This was certainly a song and I don’t know if I could recommend this to anyone. I mean, I guess if someone wanted a small window view of how the general public to an extent saw emo during the time period well here you go. This song has not aged well and I didn’t expect it to but there is a lot of this where I am just like “This song could be taken as a very mean spirited joke towards the community”. This was very certainly a song and no wonder I hadn’t listened to this since high school.
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brizzlovesyou · 1 year
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Hiiiiii sabrina 💕 3, 15, 27 and 29 for the ao3 wrapped game!
3) What work are you most proud of (regardless of kudos/hits)?
It's gotta be a dwindling, mercurial high! That was a passion project born out of both sheer love and sheer frustration at what Netflix robbed us of. I related to my beloved Grizz perhaps more than I cared to admit and because he's such a well-read character, I got to experiment with how I write? It's much more poetic than my other works I think, and it was fun to challenge myself with how many literary references I could insert. Also, writing for a completely dead fandom that got one (1) season of a show 3 years ago definitely teaches you the value of writing for intrinsic validation and it was so fulfilling to know I was literally only writing it because it's what I wanted to read.
15) What WIP are you taking into next year with you?
late nights at the old arcade!! I'm really hoping to take my year-end holiday time to revamp my outline and figure out a plan for getting the rest of the chapters done. I have so many exciting plans for that story and I know exactly how it's going to end.
27) What do you listen to while writing?
Okay I love making playlists!! Sometimes I make them for a specific character or fandom, sometimes I make them for a specific fic. Sometimes I can't actually write with them on, but they're a really great thing to listen to while editing or beforehand to get me in the mood.
29) Favorite line/passage you wrote this year?
Alright my memory is really bad and I sometimes completely forget whatever I've written as soon as I hit publish as;ldkfj but here are two I'm very fond of:
From a dwindling, mercurial high Ch 1
Because Grizz has spent his entire life trying to speak a different language than the one that’s truly in his heart. He learned how to talk to girls, about girls. Learned terms like blitz and snap and fumble while trying to forget ones like kick-ball-change. Learned to keep his words and phrases simple, lest they fly far over the heads of his less eloquent peers.
He’s thrown himself into literature, into poetry, into any medium where people can bravely and beautifully express what they feel. He’s been memorizing their words since before he can remember - an instinct borne from the gratitude that someone somewhere can speak about the things he cannot. 
From late nights at the old arcade Ch 6
She flinched, finally hearing verbal confirmation of all the fears and anxieties that had kept her in a chokehold during those lonely nights in Atlanta, the ones whispering that there was no point in reaching out because they didn’t need her anymore. That JJ was somehow better off without her.
Somewhere, at the bottom of her heart, under layers of scar tissue and insecurity, she knew he was lashing out. Knew better than anyone that JJ Maybank didn’t let people in easily. Could almost see the scene before her replaced by neon fluorescents - a pink hue on his face as he told her about his shitshow of a childhood, each new revelation unlocking with a different jukebox selection.
Time warped, expanding and contracting, as it all flickered through her mind, all the different ways this could play out. She was just drunk enough to let her own hurt take priority, just high enough not to care about being the better person.
ao3 wrapped [writers edition] - send me a number from this post and I’ll answer!
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bevylynn67 · 2 years
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Love of Reading
Blog #4
So I hate to be a cliche, but my love of reading came from a place called home. Home should have been a place of joy, laughter, good memories, and carefree kids running around having fun. There were moments of that but hidden behind the four walls, lived different people. I spent more time engulfing fear for breakfast, lunch, and dinner than actual food. My home was to later become my prison but that is another story. Books opened up a new world for me, one I could get lost in and not be scared of anything.
I guess my earliest memory of books came from Drachman or Roberts Elementary school. Storytime at school was my absolute favorite time of the day. I loved using my imagination to make the action come to life as my teacher read. I loved the way the sound of the pages as the librarian turned them and the way she held the book so that she could read and show us the pictures at the same time. The famous book that comes to mind, is The Missing Piece by author Shel Silverstein. Strange I should remember this one book, but I had to Google the author's name. It was about the missing piece that tells the circle that it can belong to someone else and still be itself. I am sure that the librarian explained this to us but maybe I never really understood the meaning. I also recall my introduction to Beverly Cleary and the many books about two sisters, Beezus and Romona adventures about growing up. Tales of the Fourth Grade Nothing, the by Judy Blume.
Reading became my world and I used to go to the school library and choose (during those days, two books) were allowed to be checked out at a time. I would choose a book of poetry (something with less than 100 pages) that would not take me long to read. I also chose books that were stories about other countries. These were fables of young kids on journeys in their country. The second type of book was a novel. I wanted length so that I could enjoy the book longer. One of my favorite books was Island of the Blue Dolphins, by Scott O'Dell and based on a true story about a young girl left unknowingly on an island after her village flees to keep from being captured by a group of seal hunters. She was on that island for 50 years before she was discovered alive and well.
I began to read the series of books by T.S. Eliot, The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. The books that followed were rich in magic and journeys that took you where fear did not exist. It was a world full of magic, friends, and life lessons. I read so many books that my teacher provided reading over the summer and if we read so many books, then we got a prize. Well, I read a lot and when school resumed, I was invited to attend the Young Readers Conference. This was so exciting. I thought to myself, I going to meet Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume! I don't remember if a group of us rode a bus to the event or if my dad drove me. I remember being alone in a room full of other kids and adults. I never met the authors and in fact, I felt out of place. I knew nothing of interacting with people. I wish I could remember more but I just don't. My intention for blogging is to see if I can unlock some of the memories that have been blocked for so long. I feel like an amnesia victim. I feel like I will be able to write like God intended me to.
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nitesh-123n · 2 days
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How to learn Tamil in 30 days.
From Vanakkam to Valargal: Crash Course Tamil in 30 Days!
Ever dreamt of strolling along the Marina Beach in Chennai, the cultural heart of Tamil Nadu, and understanding the chatter around you? Or maybe you're yearning to delve into the ancient literary world of Sangam poetry. Whatever your reason, mastering Tamil in a month might seem like an ambitious feat. But fret not, language enthusiast! With the right approach, you can unlock the basics of this beautiful Dravidian language and take your first steps on an exciting linguistic journey.
Laying the Foundation: The Alphabet and Sounds
Tamil boasts a unique writing system unlike its Indo-European counterparts. Don't be intimidated! The Tamil alphabet, with its 18 consonants and 12 vowels, is quite logical. Start by familiarizing yourself with the consonant and vowel characters, along with their pronunciations. Resources like mnemonic flashcards or apps like "Learn Tamil Alphabets" can make this process engaging.
Everyday Essentials: Building Your Vocabulary
Now that you can recognize the building blocks, it's time to construct some meaning! Focus on everyday greetings, essential verbs like "to be," "to have," and "to go," and common nouns for food, family, and places. Use spaced repetition apps like Anki to solidify these words in your memory.
Tune In and Talk Up: Embrace the Power of Immersion
Learning a language isn't a passive pursuit. Immerse yourself in the world of Tamil! Here's how:
Music Magic: Listen to Tamil film soundtracks or create playlists of popular Tamil singers like A.R. Rahman. Pay attention to recurring words and their context.
Movie Marathon: Dive into Tamil cinema! Start with movies that have subtitles in your native language, then gradually transition to those with English subtitles.
Language Exchange Partner: Find a native Tamil speaker online or in your community for language exchange from Hindustani tongue. Don't be afraid to make mistakes – embrace them as stepping stones to fluency!
Make it Fun: Gamify Your Learning
Language learning shouldn't feel like a chore. Make it a game!
Label it Up: Write down the Tamil names of everyday objects in your house and stick them on. This constant visual reinforcement will boost your vocabulary.
Think in Tamil: Challenge yourself to think in simple Tamil sentences throughout the day. This will prime your brain for speaking the language.
Find a Tamil Buddy: Learning with a friend is always more motivating. Partner up with someone who's also interested in Tamil and quiz each other on vocabulary or have mini-conversations.
Conclusion: A Month of Milestones, A Lifetime of Language
While achieving fluency in a month might not be realistic, you can definitely build a strong foundation for further learning. Remember, consistency is key. Dedicate a specific time each day to Tamil practice, even if it's just 20 minutes. Celebrate your milestones, no matter how small. By the end of the month, you'll be able to hold basic conversations, understand common phrases, and most importantly, develop a love for this rich and vibrant language. So, what are you waiting for? Embark on your Tamil adventure today – Vanakkam (வணக்கம்)!
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10 Creative Writing Exercises to Boost Students' Writing Skills
The ability to write effectively is invaluable in today’s fast-paced world. Sancta Maria International School recognises the significance of strong writing skills for its students. Whether they are revising their creative talents or getting ready for exams, we believe it is essential that they have a passion for writing. As Sancta Maria International School prides itself on providing a top-notch IB program in Faridabad, it is essential to implement effective strategies to develop students' writing abilities.Here, we will explore 10 creative writing exercises that we encourage students to diligently practice so as to enhance their writing skills and unlock their creativity.
How to Develop Writing Skills in Students 1. Journaling: One of the best methods used by teachers to develop the student’s writing skill is through journaling. It should be encouraged that students jot down their feelings, thoughts and experiences every day in a diary. Not only does this habit help students become better writers but also enables them express themselves freely.
2. Creative Prompts: Provide your learners with some creative prompts inspire them while coming up with ideas for fictional stories or poems . Picture prompts, quotes and scenarios can be an excellent way of helping those who are stuck and need assistance in starting off their writing task. 3. Collaborative Storytelling: Students’ writing will improve when engaged with collaborative storytelling activities as part of group work . Apart from just enhancing their general performance in writings, this exercise imparts knowledge on importance of collective effort towards making stories look coherent together as a unit output made by writers put together through sharing information concerning each other's efforts’. 4. Character Development: Encourage learners to make painstakingly detailed character profiles for their stories so that these characters come alive on paper, thus making the story more interesting to read. By delving deep into their characters' backgrounds, motivations, and personalities, students can bring their writing to life and make their stories more engaging. 5. Setting Descriptions: It is possible to get students to become better at describing the settings of their stories by writing about where those settings take place . Their use of words should be such that they create pictures in the reader’s mind that makes them feel as if they are somewhere else altogether whether or not it is a different era or country from their own. 6. Dialogue Practice: Dialogue is an essential element of storytelling. Provide students with opportunities to practice writing dialogue, focusing on realistic conversations that reveal character traits and advance the plot. 7. Poetry Writing: Students may want to explore different forms of writing through poetry lessons . Haikus, sonnets or simply free verse could be important learning aids in sharpening their writing skills. 
8. Revision and Editing: Revising and editing are essential parts of teaching students how to write good essays . By reading back over what was written, making changes and corrections concerning subject verb agreement, you can make sure your students create refined pieces with high literary value which have a higher degree of accuracy when it comes to punctuations and grammar errors. 9. Literary Analysis: Encourage learners into activities like literary analysis in order for them to gain critical thinking skills, develop understanding on how stories are told by authors whose works have stood out since time in memorial. Let them look at the literary work created by famous authors applying their conclusions to personal compositions done by them.
10. Publishing Opportunities: Give students platforms to showcase their work through school magazines, competitions or online sites where they can publish their pieces. Increased audience participation gives young authors more self-assurance as well as suggestions that help improve their abilities in writing within future periods thereby improving upon content presentation quality in further writings produced later on along with additional training stipulated throughout curriculum guidance , combined with useful secrets intended for young beginners’ development.
The response to the question of how to develop writing skills in students is simple; These creative writing exercises will help. At Sancta Maria International School, these exercises are integrated into the syllabus where we try to make our students become good writers and effective communicators. It is only through practice, collaboration, and exploration that students may acquire academic writing skills as well as others required for their success in life. If you're looking to nurture your child's writing talents and enhance their creative expression, consider enrolling them at our IB school in Faridabad today. Together, we can inspire a new generation of writers and storytellers.
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Happy birthday, Adrienne Rich!
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Adrienne Cecile Rich, born May 16, 1929, in Baltimore, Maryland, and died March 27, 2012, in Santa Cruz, California, was an American poet, essayist, and feminist. She was called "one of the most widely read and influential poets of the second half of the 20th century", and was credited with bringing "the oppression of women and lesbians to the forefront of poetic discourse." Rich criticized rigid forms of feminist identities and valorized what she coined the "lesbian continuum," which is a female continuum of solidarity and creativity that impacts and fills women's lives.
Her first collection of poetry, A Change of World, was selected by renowned poet W. H. Auden for the Yale Series of Younger Poets Award. Auden went on to write the introduction to the published volume. She famously declined the National Medal of Arts, protesting the vote by House Speaker Newt Gingrich to end funding for the National Endowment for the Arts.
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Snapshots of a Daughter-in-Law, 1963
1
You, once a belle in Shreveport, with henna-colored hair, skin like a peach bud, still have your dresses copied from that time, and play a Chopin prelude called by Cortot: "Delicious recollections float like perfume through the memory." Your mind now, moldering like wedding-cake, heavy with useless experience, rich with suspicion, rumor, fantasy, crumbling to pieces under the knife-edge of mere fact. In the prime of your life. Nervy, glowering, your daughter wipes the teaspoons, grows another way. 2 Banging the coffee-pot into the sink she hears the angels chiding, and looks out past the raked gardens to the sloppy sky. Only a week since They said: Have no patience. The next time it was: Be insatiable. Then: Save yourself; others you cannot save. Sometimes she's let the tap stream scald her arm, a match burn to her thumbnail, or held her hand above the kettle's snout right in the woolly steam. They are probably angels, since nothing hurts her anymore, except each morning's grit blowing into her eyes.
3 A thinking woman sleeps with monsters. The beak that grips her, she becomes. And Nature, that sprung-lidded, still commodious steamer-trunk of tempora and mores gets stuffed with it all: the mildewed orange-flowers, the female pills, the terrible breasts of Boadicea beneath flat foxes' heads and orchids. Two handsome women, gripped in argument, each proud, acute, subtle, I hear scream across the cut glass and majolica like Furies cornered from their prey: The argument ad feminam, all the old knives that have rusted in my back, I drive in yours, ma semblable, ma soeur! 4 Knowing themselves too well in one another: their gifts no pure fruition, but a thorn, the prick filed sharp against a hint of scorn... Reading while waiting for the iron to heat, writing, My Life had stood--a Loaded Gun-- in that Amherst pantry while the jellies boil and scum, or, more often, iron-eyed and beaked and purposed as a bird, dusting everything on the whatnot every day of life.
5 Dulce ridens, dulce loquens, she shaves her legs until they gleam like petrified mammoth-tusk. 6 When to her lute Corinna sings neither words nor music are her own; only the long hair dipping over her cheek, only the song of silk against her knees and these adjusted in reflections of an eye. Poised, trembling and unsatisfied, before an unlocked door, that cage of cages, tell us, you bird, you tragical machine-- is this fertillisante douleur? Pinned down by love, for you the only natural action, are you edged more keen to prise the secrets of the vault? has Nature shown her household books to you, daughter-in-law, that her sons never saw?
7 "To have in this uncertain world some stay which cannot be undermined, is of the utmost consequence." Thus wrote a woman, partly brave and partly good, who fought with what she partly understood. Few men about her would or could do more, hence she was labeled harpy, shrew and whore. 8 "You all die at fifteen," said Diderot, and turn part legend, part convention. Still, eyes inaccurately dream behind closed windows blankening with steam. Deliciously, all that we might have been, all that we were--fire, tears, wit, taste, martyred ambition-- stirs like the memory of refused adultery the drained and flagging bosom of our middle years. 9 Not that it is done well, but that it is done at all? Yes, think of the odds! or shrug them off forever. This luxury of the precocious child, Time's precious chronic invalid,-- would we, darlings, resign it if we could? Our blight has been our sinecure: mere talent was enough for us-- glitter in fragments and rough drafts. Sigh no more, ladies. Time is male and in his cups drinks to the fair. Bemused by gallantry, we hear our mediocrities over-praised, indolence read as abnegation, slattern thought styled intuition, every lapse forgiven, our crime only to cast too bold a shadow or smash the mold straight off. For that, solitary confinement, tear gas, attrition shelling. Few applicants for that honor. 10 Well, she's long about her coming, who must be more merciless to herself than history. Her mind full to the wind, I see her plunge breasted and glancing through the currents, taking the light upon her at least as beautiful as any boy or helicopter, poised, still coming, her fine blades making the air wince but her cargo no promise then: delivered palpable ours.
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