“I am walking on puffy white clouds, barefooted and sensing only you, I eat your chalice of golden worship, adorned by thoughts of truth and sincerity, nothing can sway me, no winds can take you away, you are boundless, free and walking within me.”—Kevin Harling
well…. activities and stuff. I can’t really think right now. am now avoiding cars, driving. accidents to be exact. just got back from the hospital. a silly car crash. so.. now my free time consists of sitting and taking medicines. oh a wonderful life.
“writing is physical for me. i always have the sense that the words are coming out of my body, not just my mind. i write in longhand, and the pen is scratching the words onto the page. i can even hear the words being written. so much of the effort that goes into writing prose for me is about making sentences that capture the music that i’m hearing in my head. it takes a lot of work, writing, writing, and rewriting to get the music exactly the way you want it to be. that music is a physical force. not only do you write books physically, but you read books physically as well. there’s something about the rhythms of language that correspond to the rhythms of our own bodies. an attentive reader is finding meanings in the book that can’t be articulated, finding them in his or her body. i think this is what so many people don’t understand about fiction. poetry is supposed to be musical. but people don’t understand prose. they’re so used to reading journalism–clunky, functional sentences that convey factual information–facts, more than just the surfaces of things.”—paul auster, the believer, february 2005
“I now feel that it was then on that evening of sweet dreams - that the very first dawn of human love burst upon the icy night of my spirit. Since that period I have never seen nor heard your name without a shiver half of delight, half of anxiety…. For years your name never passed my lips, while my soul drank in, with a delirious thirst, all that was uttered in my presence respecting you.”—Edgar Allan Poe
My angel, my all, my very self. - Only a few words today, and, what is more, written in pencil (and with your pencil)-I shan’t be certain of my rooms here until tomorrow; what an unnecessary waste of time is all this—Why this profound sorrow, when necessity speaks—can our love endure without sacrifices, without our demanding everything from one another, can you alter the fact that you are not wholly mine, that I am not wholly yours?