I have the deepest affection for intellectual conversations. The ability to just sit and talk. About love, about life, about anything, about everything. To sit under the moon with all the time in the world, the full-speed train that is our lives slowing to a crawl. Bound by no obligations, barred by no human limitations. To speak without regret or fear of consequence. To talk for hours and about what’s really important in life.

(via herarbitrarymusings) +

jenniferhom:

Ninety One Good Chinese Girls, ink on paper

riff off an interesting (and strangely unsettling) photo i saw of a swarm of singing, uniform, asian girls.

If a clock gets hungry it goes back four seconds.
Once you’ve seen one shopping center you’ve seen the mall.
Acupuncture is a jab well done.
Jumping off a Paris bridge makes you in Seine.
Bakers trade recipes on a knead to know basis.
Your calendar’s days are numbered.
I break into song if I can’t find the key.
A dyslexic poet writes inverse.

If a clock gets hungry it goes back four seconds.

Once you’ve seen one shopping center you’ve seen the mall.

Acupuncture is a jab well done.

Jumping off a Paris bridge makes you in Seine.

Bakers trade recipes on a knead to know basis.

Your calendar’s days are numbered.

I break into song if I can’t find the key.

A dyslexic poet writes inverse.