I can’t think right now the brain fog came back there’s fog horns blowing in my mind right now lighthouses are flashing behind my eyelids I cannot even PROCESS what you are saying your voice has been taken by the fog monster
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Rocks dark in the setting sun. Rubbing grape juice across my lips, I watch the sun leak from the sky. Wrinkled and grey, it is left. A lonely shade to welcome the Moon.
Father caught a pink fish for supper. We ate the flesh and spit out the bones.
I bury them beneath sand grains and look up at the grape stained sky.
Soon, we loose the summer and I find you.
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Sometimes I remember that I am in fact strange and off-putting and then I'm like ah okay that's why the whole everything is going on
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Título: O Surf Cósmico que Levou ao Farol Luzente
Nankin sobre Papel
Nankin on Paper
29,7↔ x 21↕ cm
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She could be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of –to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.
Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse
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