Writer Bitches Be Scrolling On Tumblr Knowing Damn Well They Need To Finish Those Drafts.

sweet sweet summertime

Scrub Jays

All morning they’ve been screeching back and forth between the oak tree and the roof, bickering over bits of cat food pinched from the metal bowl by the door. When song was handed out, the lark and nightingale got there first. Who can blame the jays for raiding the robin’s nest—its pale and delicate eggs— for tearing the dark red plums straight from each other’s beaks. Who can blame the ear in its ignorance, for wanting music and failing to hear it?

Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.

Thinking

Don't you wish they would stop, all the thoughts swirling around in your head, bees in a hive, dancers tapping their way across the stage? I should rake the leaves in the carport, buy Christmas lights. Was there really life on Mars? What will I cook for dinner? I walk up the driveway, put out the garbage bins. I should stop using plastic bags, visit my friend whose husband just left her for the Swedish nanny. I wish I hadn't said Patrick's painting looked "ominous." Maybe that's why he hasn't called. Does the car need oil again? There's a hole in the ozone the size of Texas and everything seems to be speeding up. Come, let's stand by the window and look out at the light on the field. Let's watch how the clouds cover the sun and almost nothing stirs in the grass.

The Moons of August, Danusha Laméris

One of those goofy maid animes, except the viewpoint character isn't the hapless master or mistress of the house, but a regular-ass janitor who ended up on this crew due to a paperwork mixup at the temp agency and can't figure out what the fuck is wrong with her co-workers.

I just found the funniest font ever

Like. What is this. Why is this. Who is the target audience of this?

Friendly reminder to artists, writers, and anyone else working at a desk:

Stand up, uncrunch your back from whatever pretzel cosplay you were doing, and take a quick walk to get water, eat a snack, or use the bathroom.

Two rules for creating anything.

1) Make it weird.

2) Make it with love.

Trouble

He’d wanted the persimmons and asked her for them, but when she gave him the brown paper bag, brimming over, he was taken aback. Did he really need that many ? Still, he brought them home to his wife, and soon there were persimmons ripening on the kitchen counters, lining the windowsills. Each day, growing more and more succulent until the air was thick and sweet with their scent. At breakfast, he’d break one open with his spoon—the skin supple and ready to give—stir it into his hot cereal. Indescribable, the taste. And a texture he might have described as sea creature meets manna from heaven. When he ate one, he thought of her. And when he saw her, he thought of the persimmons. When her arm brushed, just barely, against his, did he imagine they both felt the same quickening? In myth, fruit is usually the beginning of disaster. And the way they made themselves so obvious— an almost audible orange against the white walls— made him wish he’d never asked her for them, didn’t have to smell them sugaring the air with ruin, as he sat there, face lowered to the bowl, spooning the soft pulp into his mouth.

Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.