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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
March 5, 2012
passerby by ~EternalSunday The suggester says, "The line 'a puzzle / with no corner pieces' grabbed me right there, and wouldn't let go."
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Literature Text
raspy voice, like a demon begging for mercy. she was
always a broken melody,
a puzzle
with no corner pieces.
i can see her,
drenched by the truth in her own
words, "i am just
a crack in the concrete,
marked
by the footsteps
of people like
you."
always a broken melody,
a puzzle
with no corner pieces.
i can see her,
drenched by the truth in her own
words, "i am just
a crack in the concrete,
marked
by the footsteps
of people like
you."
Literature
the less i know
something new: my breath hitched but the words meant nothing.
i owed the light peserverent flattery in the form of prose,
stories of what could have been.
the gloom in which i slept was a system altogether unable to measure up to the new universe;
to exist together in perfect cognition is first to understand that i never wish to be better.
how pitiable this impure form to which we all succumb
littered with stars. i am temporary like them, almost, always and never.
I have forgotten how to live. it is late mornings during which i upturn my lazy eyes to the sky
against it's will. there, like you, live millions- and my mind is reborn.
t
Literature
anemic, broken, and growing up anyway
when my sister was five, she dictated a letter to me in her strong little voice
while dust drifted in the sunshine
of our creaky old room.
dear me [she said],
barney is the best. i will wear blue all the time even though i'm a girl. my heart beats without me telling it to and that's pretty cool. i think people always feel better if you tell them you love them. i will always smile because i have dimples when i smile.
love,
me.
"did you write it?" she asked, and i told her i did, every word
with the chunky yellow pencil i'd fished out of my school bag.
i handed her the letter, and she folded it up carefully
and she smiled.
when my s
Literature
Bravery
On Saturday the twenty-first of January, Elliot took a gun, pressed it to the strip of bone between his eyes, and shot himself. The bullet shattered the frontal bone of his skull, warping his features past recognition, and burrowed through his pre-frontal cortex into the midbrain. He died before the sound stopped echoing through his empty apartment.
This story isn't about that.
I worked with Elliot for only a little while—less than six months. Most of what I knew about him came from his desk. Unlike the smaller ones the secretaries and other reporters had, it was a stately, imposing thing. It would've been terrifying, especially to a
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Inspired by the song Le Tunnel D'or by Aaron. I didn't understand a word of the lyrics, and somehow that made it feel even more beautiful.
© 2012 - 2024 EternalSunday
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