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Tuesday 12th March 2019

La fatigue a des couleurs

La fatigue a des couleurs Comme les saisons. Elle a ses douceurs et ses éclats, ses silences. Mais surtout ce qu’elle permet de voir : D’une chose à son image Imperceptible, une sorte De distance sans distance. L’incertitude du monde. Comme un vacillement bref. Fatigue has colors like the seasons. She has her sweetness and [..more..]

STW#47893 | Be the First to Comment | on March 12, 2019 - 3:13 am - Life - by
Sunday 10th March 2019

Of-Flowers-and-Fire

So my family used to do a s*** ton of road trips. We would drive about fourteen hours every major holiday to see family. On the way there is this wonderful Italian restaurant, amazing food, but the portions are always so huge that we never finished the food. Well we had leftovers on the drive [..more..]

STW#47890 | Be the First to Comment | on March 10, 2019 - 12:54 pm - Life - by
Saturday 9th March 2019

Jean-Paul Sartre

Existentialism Is a Humanism My purpose here is to offer a defence of existentialism against several reproaches that have been laid against it. First, it has been reproached as an invitation to people to dwell in quietism of despair. For if every way to a solution is barred, one would have to regard any action [..more..]

STW#47888 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 9:06 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47887 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 5:45 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47886 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:51 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47885 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:51 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47884 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:51 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47883 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:51 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47882 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:51 pm - Life - by

-fore art, thou Wordsmith-

-fore art, thou Wordsmith- How be-it, the very soil upon my brow, is akin unto my hands, betwixt thy spine. Doth not the Quill aspire to inscribe; for what manner, hast mine blood contrived.. What looming shadow, dear faint echo; O' saintly spectre, why must thee chide. Shall I disquietly tolerate, circumspectly; wilt not thine [..more..]

STW#47881 | Be the First to Comment | on March 9, 2019 - 4:50 pm - Life - by