Home.

I so much regret that so much of earth's beauty and joy have been sacrificed. And for what? Not for quality of life for our species, much less for any other species' quality of life.

This is some form of survivor's guilt I'm feeling. It's not that I feel so explicitly at fault. It's just the simple sharing of grief that one expresses when another's loved one dies. It's that kind of "I'm sorry."

"What is he? A Mexican or something?"

My grandmother was a short round blue-eyed woman, freckled and plain, but until then I'd avoided thinking of her as homely. After that, it was about all I could see of her. I'd introduced her to a man I thought, for a while, I loved, only to see for the first time how pale her eyes were. They absorbed no light.

m ss ng p eces

http://www.youtube.com/v/AH7YxbuZQs8

From Jonathan Harris, not just beautiful photography, but also a meditation on memory and story.

[Via Imaginary Foundation]

So. A character has been outing herself these last few weeks. She, I think, is the foil the main character of my make-believe WIP needs.

A recently encountered quote that I failed to snag went something like this: to know what an argument is about, know first whom the speaker is arguing with.

Will you not relent?
I call you once more: Come.
I will not last forever.