A woman’s body always stands on the outskirts of town, verging on uncivilization...
half of its whole being is devoted to remembering how to live in the woods. This is why Witch, this is why Whore, this is why Unlucky, this is why Unclean. This is why attempts to govern the female body always have a feeling of last resort, because the female body is fundamentally ungovernable. - Patricia Lockwood My god, the last Sinful Sunday. What an era it's been, When I first started blogging in 2017 as Annie Savoy, I found Molly and Sinful Sunday and got accepted into this vast colorful wonderfully supportive and creative erotic community. Molly specifically was so welcoming and forthcoming about the logistics of blogging as well as memes and bloggers to follow but mostly she was and remains one of the most incredible self-photography mentors I've ever encountered in this erotic photography space. I've taken so much creative inspiration from this community and I will miss it so much. To everyone who's posted on Sinful Sunday, to all those who found ways to accept themselves and their sexuality by turning the camera on their own bodies, to all those who sent appreciative DMs and left wonderful comments, I cannot be more appreciative. I raise a glass to all of you and am filled with gratitude to have been part of this community for a brief period. And to Molly, the biggest thank you. Most of us would not have continued in this art form without you. Whatever you go to next, I can't wait to see it.
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At night, I open the window and ask the moon to come and press its face against mine. Breathe into me. Close the language-door and open the love window. The moon won’t use the door, only the window. — Rumi (as translated by Coleman Barks) The desire for reassurance. And, equally, to be reassured. (The itch to ask whether I’m still loved; and the itch to say, I love you, half-fearing that the other has forgotten, since the last time I said it.) ― Susan Sontag Stare. It is the way to educate your eye, and more. Stare, pry, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long. – Walker Evans I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year. — Edna St. Vincent Millay |
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