I must have flowers, always, and always.– Claude Monet (via foreverdiary)
They buy poetry like gang members buy guns — for aperture, caliber, heft and...– Dorianne Laux, “Savages”
Often a man wishes to be alone and a girl wishes to be alone too and if they...– Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell To Arms (via boxofoctaves)
commovente asked: I want to rip apart your words from a bread basket and dip them in olive oil and eat them all day. Ugh, it's all so beautiful.
It doesn’t matter that the moon is moving away from us 3.8 centimeters a year, or that one day the sun will swallow us whole and every single thing we love about our tiny speck-of-dust planet will be reduced to ash. They’ll say, “The sun loved the inner planets so much, she consumed them.” It’s almost romantic, our fate. Mars will bow his head in shame at not...
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours Forever and forever and forever.– Ezra Pound, from “The River Merchant’s Wife: A Letter” (via boxofoctaves)
I feel so bad today that I want to write a poem. I don’t care; any poem,...– Richard Brautigan, “April 7, 1969”
One clear night while the others slept, I climbed the stairs to the roof of the...– Mark Strand, “Black Sea”
dictionaryofobscuresorrows: n. a relationship or friendship that you can’t get out of your head, which you thought had faded long ago but is still somehow alive and unfinished, like an abandoned campsite whose smoldering embers still have the power to start a forest fire.
What cures your lonely Saturday night blues?