"Blogging isn't journalism, it's graffiti with punctuation."

>give my gun away when it’s loaded; if you don’t shoot it how am i supposed to hold it?

>my weekend in porto, portugal


wind through the sacred stone streets.


listen to the bells of the temples ring out


felines and destroyed cobbles in shadows, stretching


the shores of the atlantic, enviably blue


ancient boats along the rio douro, where thousands said goodbye to their ancestral lands and sailed to canada for a better life. and i’ve done the opposite.


illuminated and elated.


my skin bronzes.


look beyond my knees and see nothing but the myriad of azure


beached.


through little holes and secret places, you still can see colour and blooms


climbing a church tower, stopping to smile


on the way up, but looking all the way down, framed in a stone window


at the top with nothing but the sun on my lips


the rio douro sends gusts through my hair (and dries my massive pit stains)


goddess gnomes overlook the portuguese


in the ancient stairwell, little stone holes show you peaks of the peaks.


inside the sé cathedral, the most interesting aspect isn’t the gilt idolatry or the ornate costumes or the soaring columns, but the people who choose to pray like lambs


because an empty church should stay empty

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