bot that makes you gay

we sell our poppets & our poisons & we promise curses but its different –
because most of it is use less & a fancy show & no thing else –
we live in a house barely bigger than our out stretched arms & we are all ways hungry how could a curse from our mouths do any thing –

Why does the soul remain, after the body bleeds, and dies, and turns to ash? Is this the final cruelty of the gods? Or evidence, perhaps, that we have some immortal stuff in us, ourselves.

Every day I see or hear something that more or less kills me with delight, that leaves me like a needle in the haystack of light. It is what I was born for—to look, to listen, to lose myself inside this soft world—to instruct myself over and over in joy, and acclamation.

From my window I saw two birds, lost at sea, and I caught our reflection in that silent tragedy.

And some will say you used your blade, and some will say you used your speed – either way you’re gonna win, Theseus. You’re just a hitman, but I forgive you.

I don’t dream of someone who understands me immediately, who seems to have known me my entire life, who says, I know me too. I want someone keen to learn my own strange organization, amazed at what’s revealed; someone who asks, and then what, and then what?

I have no news. I live quietly, I love you and I wait.

Shall we remain here, then? We have food, water—blessed peace. Why not stay? Be happy? What a wonderful feeling it is to be free!

(How did her belief system break down with the appearance of the ghost?) Softly, without trauma, in a series of imperceptible shifts.

With whom should Death belong, if not with Blood, with Life?

You're unfinished, but I can see his touch in your design. You're beautiful like he was.

I realised now the risk of how we had lived: that when home was a person and not a place, once they were gone you couldn't get back. Home was lost for ever.

I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more.

Said the river: imagine everything you can imagine, then keep on going.

Okay. I think I'm losing it for real. I am thinking of a kingdom. A kingdom of ice. It's mine. My kingdom. I have to go there. NO. NO NO NO NO.

People say friends don't destroy one another. What do they know about friends?

You came and I was crazy for you, and you cooled my mind that burned with longing.

Love is so embarrassing – I'm this awkward and uncomfortable thing, and I'm running out of places to hide it.

I'm sorry if I smothered you. I'm sorry if I smothered you. I sometimes wish I'd stayed inside my mother, never to come out.

Who would deny himself a death so terribly entire? About such nothingness, we dream.

Glittering to gloss a hidden hurt, unlearning not to hope for more. Stumbling steps where the wall used to be.

I'm the rocks they weigh down the angels with.

It isn't fair, the depth of my looking, the threat of my looking. It's rude to shake a man visible and claim the results.

‘It's two thousand, one hundred and twenty-nine years since Ptolemy died,’ he said. ‘He was fourteen. Eight world empires have risen up and fallen away since that day, and I still carry his face. Who do you think's the lucky one?’

The first time you called me I knew you liked me, even though you avoided my flirting. I thought you were trying to be professional, Carlos, playing ignorant, but you weren't. You were shy. You didn't know how to ask. And I knew I loved you.

Yes, I guess I made this bed, but I'll take the sidewalk instead – that's how we deal with boys like me.

Why do you prophesize my death? You have no need.
I myself well know this, that it is my fate to die here,
far from my beloved father and my mother; but even so
I shall take no rest before I drive the Trojans to their fill of war.

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

Don’t give up now; you’ve still a little will left. Will you be strong, give song, fulfill the promises you made?

One of them asked what was in my skirts to make them so heavy, and I said, Knives, and he took his hand off my thigh and never touched me again.