What its like to read or write:

The stress of the world, of rushed long work days, of all the injustice, the organized routine hypocrisy makes aching holes in your chest and labours your breathing and hangs from your cheeks as a disproportionate, unreasonable, impossible weight. Then you read something – a poem, a story – little drops of humanity – and the injustice doesn’t go away, but you can breathe again.

-Tamara Pearson


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