"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


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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