While, through the west, where sinks the crimson day,
Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners gray?
By Junior Fritz Jacquet, each little face is formed by squashing a toilet paper roll into a face and fixed with a variety of shellac and pigments to give each one their own character. They have a lovely origami effect, and I can just imagine them talking and moving like little puppets.
Her voice, delicate though it was, had a strengh to it that made one realise why a teacup can stay in one piece for centuries […]
Being born a woman is an awful tragedy. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars—to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording—all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.