Favorite quote of the season.
Ya burnt!
(Source: 28lives, via monkeyknifefight)
(via lavelaundry)
It’s been quite a week: losing MCA, Maurice Sendak and Vidal Sassoon! Madness.
On that note, it was quite a bittersweet surprise when the NYTimes called to have me illustrate a little letters piece in honor of Maurice Sendak, which I gladly did. There was one letter especially moving from a woman who was abused as a young teen, and while waiting to see how her future will play out after reporting the abuse she found strength in Where the Wild Things Are.Take a look at the other letters here.
RIP, you legends!
Original image by Diana Walker for Time.
(Source: , via kbkaleidoscope)
(via kbkaleidoscope)
”
If a man once loved you,
he’s turned you into a moth.
That’s how he’ll remember
the flutter: that numinous,
that beating, that winged.
Angels and moths:
that’s who men love.
But I don’t recollect like that.
I don’t think I ever loved
that gently. And I’ve never
flown toward a burning
house, hoping, maybe
my faith lay in that
single thing left,
in that smoldering filigree.
I never reminisce
a sorrow that delicately shaped.
But sometimes I feel someone remembering
me that way: translucent,
crazy, awake only at night.
He’s regretting his fingertips
were not wide or soft enough.
He’s mourning me now.
He’s imagining me eating away
at someone else’s light.
And that’s perfect.
That’s exactly how
he always wanted to love
me. My wings,
my hair-like antennae
hanging;
my frenulum
between his forefinger
and his thumb.
he’s turned you into a moth.
the flutter: that numinous,
that beating, that winged.
that’s who men love.
I don’t think I ever loved
that gently. And I’ve never
flown toward a burning
house, hoping, maybe
my faith lay in that
single thing left,
in that smoldering filigree.
I never reminisce
a sorrow that delicately shaped.
me that way: translucent,
crazy, awake only at night.
He’s regretting his fingertips
were not wide or soft enough.
He’s mourning me now.
He’s imagining me eating away
at someone else’s light.
That’s exactly how
he always wanted to love
me. My wings,
my hair-like antennae
hanging;
my frenulum
between his forefinger
and his thumb.
“Angels and Moths,” Olena Kalytiak Davis (via clavicola)
