Wednesday, January 30, 2013


To wear my fear on my sleeve
A gown woven from a web
Spun by a spider

wind tunnels

wind tunnels through my hair; leaves levitate.
Morrissey murmers murder in my ears; no one else hears but i hear no one else.
is anything more beautiful? i don't know i just breathe in the sound

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

"Most of our childhood is stored not in photos, but in certain biscuits, lights of day, smells, textures of carpet. "
-Alain de Botton

Monday, January 21, 2013

There are only two ways I desire to know people…intimately, or not at all.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

a poem called winter

no one can break my heart the way bukowski can
above, the spectrum ranges from moody and stormy to opaque and cloudless to coquettish to simmering to playful to sad to weeping yet we never shun the sky. the range of emotion in the human experience is a mirror image of the sky but never garners the same acceptance

Drawn again to the bone coloring of winter--statue and marble and brick and shrub drained of color--everywhere the same bleakness, but look how with a touch of violet from the sky it stirs.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

Night is purer than day; it is better for thinking and loving and dreaming. At night everything is more intense, more true. The echo of words that have been spoken during the day takes on a new and deeper meaning. 
-Elie Wiesel

Friday, January 11, 2013

What do you want to be when you grow up?

I want to be a quote that someone cherishes.
I want to like the ephemeral, because it sounds pretty, but words will break your heart because they aren't always what they seem. 

For isn't ephemeral a euphemism for death? But life is ephemeral, and life is beautiful. If life is both beautiful and ephemeral, than is the ephemerality too not beautiful? The fleetingness of life is a characteristic of life. Life and death are not separate, death is simply the end of  life--inextricable from the thing. 
I want you to tell me what, so I can ask you why--because the what is curious but the why is breathtaking.

is passion really just rainwater?

I never feel more love than when soaked in rain
I never feel more loved than when soaked by rain

"I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of."
-Charles Bukowski
"In the room the women come and go/Talking of Michelangelo."