Thanks, Wild!

Perfect.

That's why it's a parody! I think Kael would liked liked Swift, and her review of the ERAS concert film or the SHOWGIRL release party would have been one of her weird raves / snide dismissals.

I should get a horse. I'd be very effective on a horse. 🐴

That’s what THE PRIME OF MISS JEAN BRODIE is all about. She’s a self-absorbed kook, but her students take her seriously, and one gets killed as a result. It should be required reading. The world really would be much better if people consulted me on it.

“When will Daniel Rafinejad finally be done with his book?”
I know. I get that a lot.

"Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burdens every bough,
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my tongue,
Because I would not dull you with my song."
—Shakespeare #poetry

“I need to stop backpedaling into the present.
In my old life people would straighten

the truth, but the river
flows in curves…

The distance between me and the mountains
measures an uneven thought: I feel like an orphan.”
—James Masao Mitsui #poetry

“But could a dream send up through onion fumes
Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes
And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall,
Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms

Even if we were willing to let it in,
Had time to warm it, keep it very clean”
—Gwendolyn Brooks #poetry

"To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time,
Without that monument of cat,
The cat forgotten in the moon;

And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light,
In which everything is meant for you
And nothing need be explained;

Then there is nothing to think of."
—Wallace Stevens #poetry

"In the land where all is forgotten, where no one remembers anything,
birds cut off their beaks to share your sorrow, Little Torn Shoe.
Twice of half a moon throbbed, swollen. I don’t know what
you mourned."
—Maggie Smith #poetry

“The incubus of a tree.
He did not fear the eyes,
nor the void life refused to fill,
but leaned against the nothingness,
trusting the rope,
the ring of union.

– Mash the bunched fruits for oil.
Knife the trunk’s neck for sap.
The palm wine tapped,
tangy and breast-milk-like.”
—Nithy Kasa #poetry

“She came—she came—and the quivering flame
Sunk and died in the fire.
It never was lit again on my hearth
Since I hurried across the floor,
To lift her over the threshold, and let her in at the door.”
—Mary Elizabeth Coleridge #poetry