silence here—given the thrill of greek at sunrise, or our small, three-student class on the symposium, and hamlet over tea and cookies at harold’s and morning conferences with louise about my poem with the boy obsessed with marbles and tea with moira after class to discuss feminism and latin american literatures and an afternoon on the ending of mondor’s biography of mallarmé with rhb. nothing not good about this semester. sleepless, yes, but thrilling, but brilliant, but everything everything.
someone is going to say “i have to go to the moon” in a bored, defeated tone one day
small truths, perhaps only wishful thinking
Ti is a packaging of tea bags. It uses some of the product characteristics, such as the different colors of the leaves, and solves the functional problem of the position of the bags used. The user is involved in the realization of personal traces, always different, that he may share. Drink tea becomes not a monotone routine act, but a surprising moment.
divination, strained and without the tea leaves
"We tell ourselves stories in order to live."
Joan Didion, The White Album
note to self for writing my bio.
"Look up at the stars and not down at your feet. Be curious."
looking forward to seeing the theory of everything with, yes, a critical eye: beautiful people and oxford and physics—an alluring type of romanticization—but how much of internal sadnesses beyond that?
sea lavender, stone with a vein, letter opener.