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.
I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound or stab us. If the...– Franz Kafka
I carry your heart with me (I carry it in my heart) I am never without it...– E.E. Cummings
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.
On moonlight nights the long, straight street and dirty white walls, nowhere...– Albert Camus, The Plague
They enveloped each other within the folds of their thoughts, holding each other...– Christopher Paolini, Brisingr
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...
I’ve always been an ironic dreamer, unfaithful to my inner promises. Like...– Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
Anonymous asked: So, what are your favorite, poets, and some poems to go along with that?
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...
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?