The truth never sings at the roar of night,
When she comes to my salvation, but neither really saves.
Left in the midst are pieces of two,
Your checkered mate, soul’s breach.
I wonder how the flowers on your dress never dance away
In high heaven.
For the proximity of her encompassing
And I start to ask: what are night’s words?
If the seasons split, and still no trace of her humble shadow,
Just a vestige note, curvilinear writing
And an empty wig.
I have searched the end of the purple carpet,
To see what your breath left,
If only you could show me
How you lived.
Allow me to dissolve myself,
If every inch of that dream,
Is grossly refuted,
When you understand the same stars,
But you seek another shelter within that stable’s reach,
I’m tired of running,
From your face. Your beautiful face.
Julie London knows how to sing
an unhappy filmmaker
“Welcome to Cardboard Box Office – our homemade creations of some of your favorite movie scenes built from some of our favorite domestic junk.
The project began after finding that we had accumulated both a lot of cardboard boxes (due to moving to a new country) and a baby (due to giving birth). With our social lives drastically altered we decided to find a way to make some of those housebound weekends a little more fun.
The costumes, props, and sets in Cardboard Box Office are created entirely out of everyday household items, toys, cardboard, and three individuals slowly losing their sanity. Enjoy!”
Because in the end you won’t remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain.
Jack Kerouac (via jennasouers)