![believermag:
Edvard Munch’s ”The Scream” sold for $119.9 million at a Sotheby’s auction on Wednesday.
Munch once wrote, “But can they [great works] get rid of the worm that lies gnawing at the roots of my heart? No, never.”
What will having this painting do for the worm that lies gnawing at the roots of the owner’s heart? If the new owner even has a worm…](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m3i6e2MDrW1qzh8wko1_1280.jpg)
Edvard Munch’s ”The Scream” sold for $119.9 million at a Sotheby’s auction on Wednesday.
Munch once wrote, “But can they [great works] get rid of the worm that lies gnawing at the roots of my heart? No, never.”
What will having this painting do for the worm that lies gnawing at the roots of the owner’s heart? If the new owner even has a worm…
Time Lapse Daffodil Life and Death (by purepremiumpulp)
Carla Bruni - Quelqu’un m’a dit (by naiverecords)
If we cut off the water, then the jackals will return.
YACHT: NPR Music Tiny Desk Concert (by nprmusic)
I developed an old role of film recently. It had pictures from a trip I took with friends after graduating from high school. Years between the people in those pictures and me. Years and miles and silence and so much change between those people and the person I am now, today.
This one boy who had been hiding in the roll of film—who made painting look like poetry, who smoked too many cigarettes, who wrote his name in two foot letters in the sand—is dead. Years dead.
Also a girl who lives in a haunted house in Portland now. A girl who works at the farm where her first lover grew up. A girl who is still my best friend—even after everything, the many miles and the silence. And a boy who could be anywhere doing anything and who would never jump in front of trains.
But I can’t look at any of the pictures or any of the faces without thinking about this one boy who died in a shattering violent brave stupid wasted tragic way on a subway platform on a normal sort of day.
Also, the el tracks whisper his name to me.
This story is true, if not complete. Also tragic, if not unusual. These things happen every day.
And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
Long ago the clock washed midnight away
Bringing the dawn
Stalingrad is no longer a town. By day it is an enormous cloud of burning, blinding smoke. It is a vast furnace lit by the reflection of the flames.
And when night arrives - one of those scorching, howling, bleeding nights - the dogs plunge into the Volga and swim desperately to gain the other bank. The nights of Stalingrad are a terror for them.
Animals flee this hell. The hardest stones can’t bear it for long. Only men endure.
In my dream
We were traveling. There were piles of old roses
in a rusted out truck,
I could see the road passing beneath our feet.
A giantess was chasing us. I don’t remember why.
We hate sleeping alone.
