October 2011
26 posts
Oct 18th
1,177 notes
Oct 16th
130 notes
A sore throat stirred in with swollen eyes, and the worst headache a human being can possibly handle. I’m so dreading showering any time soon.
Oct 16th
Oct 16th
11 notes
Oct 16th
6,618 notes
“I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound or stab us. If the...”
– Franz Kafka
Oct 16th
3 notes
Oct 15th
583 notes
“I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) I am never without it...”
– E.E. Cummings
Oct 15th
10 notes
Oct 13th
158 notes
2 tags
Me: How does death feel like?
Her: Like sand slipping through your fingers. As the little itty bitty rocks quietly fold in through the cracks of your hands. It's soft. It's a hush sound that emits through every bone inside your fingers, inside of your arms, and all the way up to your collar bones. Death feels like sand slipping through your fingers.
Oct 13th
2 notes
Oct 12th
1,611 notes
Oct 12th
79 notes
“On moonlight nights the long, straight street and dirty white walls, nowhere...”
– Albert Camus, The Plague
Oct 12th
2 notes
Oct 10th
6,822 notes
“They enveloped each other within the folds of their thoughts, holding each other...”
– Christopher Paolini, Brisingr
Oct 10th
2 notes
Oct 9th
2,527 notes
1 tag
Oct 8th
389 notes
2 tags
What is it about the night that makes want to run about the streets and have nectar-honey streetlights flash beneath my closed eyelids—I’m running. I pass by a park with a swing tangled around a pole. I have my eyes shut, hoping for my path to be steady, to be excluded from a malleable stop sign—God, I’m still running. Breathing heavily into the air as the dust from the sky...
Oct 8th
Oct 7th
633 notes
“I’ve always been an ironic dreamer, unfaithful to my inner promises. Like...”
–  Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
Oct 5th
8 notes
Oct 4th
668 notes
1 tag
Anonymous asked: So, what are your favorite, poets, and some poems to go along with that?
Oct 4th
1 note
Oct 4th
5 notes
Oct 3rd
723 notes
thepocketmouse: my words are stitched together with false hopes and wilting promises. this is all my fault; stories aren’t born overnight. you cannot force yourself to write a story. you cannot count pages; you must learn to count the hairs that rose from your skin and the lines of poetry that they carved in your bones. you cannot sit in front of a blank page and let the white blankness consume...
Oct 3rd
16 notes
1 tag
Anonymous asked: I would like to see, your hand writing, in print. If its possible, love. and maybe cursive too or no how about a, a, page from your journal?
Oct 3rd
2 notes