Your poetry is lonely. And yet, you write to feel less alone.
(Source: fatcat-littlecoyote, via phaunos)
Often when I imagine you
your wholeness cascades into many shapes.
You run like a herd of luminous deer
and I am dark, I am forest.
—
—Art of Living.
Behing Every Great Novelist.
—
—Art of Living.
Behing Every Great Novelist.
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She alone spoke the truth; to her alone could he speak it. That was the source of her everlasting attraction for him, perhaps; she was a person to whom one could say what came into one’s head.
She alone spoke the truth; to her alone could he speak it. That was the source of her everlasting attraction for him, perhaps; she was a person to whom one could say what came into one’s head.
If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.
It was one of those times where I didn’t feel capable of anything but destruction, my only identity was the intense urge to hurt.
(via fuckthereallife)
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