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super subtle spring pt 2

In 100, by Nora on December 23, 2021 at 4:32 pm

california makes me now miss that jumble of days that feel momentous in may: your eyes become laser-focused, able to pick out the waifish green of a bud on a naked branch from blocks away, that was not there yesterday. each minute change is heightened and clear, you become a tracker, expert in the moment – the very fucking moment – it becomes spring and you’ve survived. earning it is keeping your eyes wide open. you thirst for closure, and the bud is the evidence that it happened. summer feels so impossibly far from frigid, slick, hibernating now; but that bud, man…


In 100, by Nora on December 6, 2021 at 12:21 pm

Hold my head. Not pounding, maybe throbbing, maybe just tender. Hold my weight. Let it sink, into the earth, into arms, the body behind curving to mine. Losing, constantly. Falling. Uncapturable moment. Moment of infinity, holding everything important and nothing at all.

the hands i want are feeble now, less connected to the sturdy brain, the cognitive tissues that made the hands someone’s, hers, are frayed and glutted and glassy and milky-plaqued.

sleeping is a refuge that exists now, if only i could access that sweet nothingness that i’ve sometimes captured. i just need someone’s hands to hold my head.


In 100 on November 13, 2021 at 9:54 am

Mac Miller was my first hero who died younger than I was. I cried, walking around Berlin, listening to “2009” and “Dunno” and “Wings”.

It was heartbreak, for a kid with a heart of gold; a kid who felt deeply, shared bravely. And it was anger. It was anger at a drug addict who knew, who told you he knew, and who lost his life to a stupid fucking overdose anyway. When the kid who “fell asleep and forgot to die”, remembered.

I don’t think I’ve ever “gotten over” Mac dying.

And in some ways, I hope I never do.