For Saturday fun, find more casual pieces like a chambray dress or a breezy off the shoulder top. When you’re not outside, keep your look polished at the office with a fitted blazer or a classic peplum top from our workwear collection.Whether you have a feminine or sporty look, our bottoms selection offers up just what you need: girly skirts for date night or a pair of sleek jeans for the conference room. This fall, switch up your everyday midi dress with a pair of statement jeans and match with a structured jacket when the sun goes down. Our dress selection boasts a range of styles from sparkly party dresses for NYE to casual maxis for your next beachside escape from the urban chill. Not only do we seek out the hottest styles, but we have an amazing community of shoppers. With everything from dresses to outerwear to shoes, we offer the best in contemporary fashion to women in sizes xs-3xl.
Trampling little lives that meant of no importanceīut I don't think this one is called hope.Starfall is the ultimate destination for trendy plus size fashion. In between the grain of a yellow birch table that's hosted the gunfire of mouths and lonely bones, I stayed and played my part, losing my fingers in the varnish and pages of books, believing that I, my entirety, my open borderline skin, my wooden grain, my air in the wind, my ballpoint pen finger, was writing for something.
After The Director's end credits, eventually I joined the foreign conversation where we had begun it, with The Imagist saying, "Our skin connects us to everything, it doesn't trap us in to our own narcissism."Īnd then they were gone too, each dissolved into a part of themselves and each other - to fall into place in a world that runs on six-billion beating hearts. I told him it starts with a single line, something that zings in my mouth like cavities and canker sores, but not to take my advice because I have far too many illegitimate, ******* sons clouds of words daunted by the clear skies of the rest of the page. At the foreign end of the table, The Imagist continued a conversation about the complexities of children's books, and theories someone developed through observing their attention-starved cats who bore uncanny likeness to kids, and the appeal of Furbies, while The Director asked me how I write a poem.
He explained to me the imaginary horizons of black holes and Hawking radiation, but even he taught it through a sketch in the top left corner of his science fiction movie script. When The Director showed up, we exchanged science and art. I wish I could draw portraits so that I'd remember first impressions. I evaluated my own pen and chewed on my tongue.
In a mix-up of words, He discovered how sick he was of writing with something, rather than writing for something. The Imagist drew HannaH with a handlebar moustache and I realized that this poem ends when Two Creek closes - comforted by the fact that poetry can be about the simplest moments, the ones that I never understood exactly how beautiful they were until I read them in my own shaken handwriting.
In between sketches of friends who fell out of touch and John Ashbery poems, we gave credit to palindromes. Potato Head, with our mouth where our eye should be. Like Bob, the right eye and jawline, who knew something about everything, to the deeply detailed dreamy girl who played the accordion. He told me about his trip to Montana through drawings of the people he'd met,įrom the three friends of friends who were a quarter of a face or less. I try to sculpt our twenty-seven minute attention spans through sporadic hand gestures. The Imagist and I, we are children of a visual age. Rather I'll bushwhack through, leaving trails of half-started, stutter-stepped poems, looking for something that sings like guitar strings. And it struck me, bittersweet through the roots of my wisdom teeth, how we can never choose our art. My yearning to explore worlds that my starfall has never blinked in. You could read it in my poetry my metaphors about sheet music and night skies. I told him how I wished I could write music. What made me think I could write a children's book?" At what point did our limbs become more a part of ourselves than the sky?"Īnd after a moment of measuring the weight of words, he thought to me, "Man, I don't know why I get myself into this. Cut off my arms and I'll survive, but sever the air from my lips and. "Humans," he sketched, "have a very peculiar sense of self - it ends at our skin. In between sips of skim-milk splashed coffee in between the sharp, fragmented, ink-drags of pen and indentation of paper and the simple sketch of a fish in a lake The Imagist explained to me the conception of music and clockwork.