for a voice that glows in the dark,
and a few really good friends
to say, “That’s the way to go. — Andrea Gibson (via allmymetaphors)
(via awildofnothing)
you being in love - e.e. cummings
you being in love
will tell who softly asks in love,
am i separated from your body smile brain hands merely
to become the jumping puppets of a dream? oh i mean:
entirely having in my careful how
careful arms created this at length
inexcusable, this inexplicable pleasure-you go from several
persons: believe me that strangers arrive
when i have kissed you into a memory
slowly, oh seriously
-that since and if you disappear
solemnly
myselves
ask “life, the question how do i drink dream smile
and how do i prefer this face to another and
why do i weep eat sleep-what does the whole intend”
they wonder. oh and they cry “to be, being, that i am alive
this absurd fraction in its lowest terms
with everything cancelled
but shadows
-what does it all come down to? love? Love
if you like and i like,for the reason that i
hate people and lean out of this window is love,love
and the reason that i laugh and breathe is oh love and the reason
that i do not fall into this street is love.”
Impulse buy today - thanks a lot, Tort!
“I used to think that darkness and death were probably the same. That death was the absence of light. That death was nothing more than the shadow-lands where people bought and sold and loved as usual but with less conviction. The night seems more temporary than the day, especially to lovers, and it also seems more uncertain. In this way it sums up our lives, which are uncertain and temporary. We forget about that in the day. In the day we go on for ever. This is the city of uncertainty, where routes and faces look alike and are not. Death will be like that. We will forever be recognising people we have never met.
But darkness and death are not the same.
The one is temporary, the other is not.”
— The Passion, Jeanette Winterson (via hurryuppleaseitstime)when you’re young -
and you see all these love letters written by famous people like Frankin D Roosevelt and Marilyn Monroe and Anais Nin and TS Eliot, you wonder how people like them could ever get t such a stage where they could just write so beautifully. how did they feel, in love, something other people could only admire? then you grow older and realize it’s been in your hands all along: the capacity t love and the capacity t write. we can write our own letters and they will be better than anyone else’s. tonight, i write because i love you and i love you because you are the reason for the writing.
