Advertisement · 728 × 90

Posts by Brian

Post image

“There will be growth in the spring” -Chauncey, the Gardener

2 days ago 0 0 0 0
Post image

Pop

2 days ago 0 0 0 0
Tulips in a random street garden in Chicago

Tulips in a random street garden in Chicago

It's happening

2 weeks ago 0 0 0 0

Good news.. it gets slightly worse consistently, over time!

3 weeks ago 0 0 0 0

TBF, it’s not a fair fight

3 months ago 1 0 0 0

I was at the game last night and someone in the stands yelled out “yo Embiid ain’t got no socks on” and it was so damn funny

3 months ago 0 0 0 0

Thanks for this. One of the things I grieve about the loss of the old place is the art, ideas, and people that I was turned onto just by scrolling. Life changing stuff.

11 months ago 2 0 0 0
Advertisement

I want to be an NBA arena DJ who works from home

1 year ago 3 0 0 0
A screenshot of Maggie Smith's "Good Bones"
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

A screenshot of Maggie Smith's "Good Bones" Life is short, though I keep this from my children. Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways, a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative estimate, though I keep this from my children. For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird. For every loved child, a child broken, bagged, sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world is at least half terrible, and for every kind stranger, there is one who would break you, though I keep this from my children. I am trying to sell them the world. Any decent realtor, walking you through a real shithole, chirps on about good bones: This place could be beautiful, right? You could make this place beautiful.

Poetry Foundation not fucking around with today's poem of the day
www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/89897/...

1 year ago 5333 2125 50 99

100%making these

1 year ago 0 0 1 0
Post image

Sunset at Jockey’s Ridge State Park

1 year ago 5 0 1 0