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178
Repost from Emily Dickinson Poet
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
-Emily Dickinson
178
Say things that are worth writing or write about things that are worth reading
Or just shut up please
178
"This file has been deleted from the server due to magical reasons.
Please upload it again."
Said my AI
178
there’s something about certain moments of eye contact that feels… off, in a way I can’t quite explain...
Like for a second, it doesn’t feel like you’re just looking at someone. It feels heavier than that.
Sometimes it even makes me wonder—do we know each other from somewhere? Not in a real, clear sense, but like something in us recognizes something, even if we can’t quite remember it.
As if part of you knows the person, even if you’ve never met...
