I think Björk should know better than to play Coachella— her fans are too old for that shit

(its me, Im fans)

Do stones feel?

Do they love their life?

Or does their patience drown out everything else?

When I walk on the beach I gather a few

white ones, dark ones, the multiple colors.

Don’t worry, I say, I’ll bring you back, and I do.

Is the tree as it rises delighted with its many

branches,

each one like a poem?

Are the clouds glad to unburden their bundles of rain?

Most of the world says no, no, it’s not possible.

I refuse to think to such a conclusion.

Too terrible it would be, to be wrong.