(via poppasfavoritehole-blog)
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,—
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.-Wilfred Owen, “Strange Meeting”
(via useless-girlrage)
She used to protest when the milker came out, forcing us to use the cattle prod to control her. That was a long time ago though. She doesn’t remember those days anymore. Now all she knows is contained in our back yard. The pasture. The milk machine. The hard cock of her owner. It’s as if that human life was all just a bad dream.