“What I say is, a town isn’t a town without a bookstore. It may call itself a town, but unless it’s got a bookstore it knows it’s not fooling a soul.”
—Neil Gaiman (via atomos)
June 2011
135 posts
badinait à travers la nuit →
she-whispers: I am the dust that rests upon your favorite novel. I am the ink that penetrates into the notebook pages as you would ventilate, leaving secrets upon my canvas. Your words of pain, joy, indifference, love, frustrations and such has permanently carved itself onto my skin and I wear my flesh like the latest trend. Share with me your darkest desires and your brightest dreams. I am the tears that fall from the corners of your almond shaped eyes as you weep at the loss of your friend. Tears are always warm but once it’s gone, it leaves you cold. I am the smile that is effortlessly put in place during your proudest moments. I am your favorite pair of shoes, taking you to places that not many people know about on the nights you don’t know yourself. I am the light that caresses your skin and the darkness that invites you in. I am the flakes of snow that sprinkles in the sky and dresses your anatomy with specks of innocence. I am the bristles that runs through your luscious hair every morning after you shower. I am the coat that shields you from the bitter winter. I am the blanket the wraps around your beautiful soul during the night and greets you with a smile every morning. I am the wind that kisses your face and I am the rain that washes away your fears. I am everywhere that you never pay attention to and I hide with the hopes that one day, you will find me.
“It is a luxury to be understood.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson (via sleepingtigers)
Without a Focus
The Rosebuds
The Rosebuds - Without a focus
Play
“One of those long, romantic novels, six hundred and fifty pages of small print, translated from French or German or Hungarian or something — because few of the English ones have the exact feeling I mean. And you read one page of it or even one phrase of it, and then you gobble up all the rest and go about in a dream for weeks afterwards, for months afterwards — perhaps all your life, who knows? — surrounded by those six hundred and fifty pages, the houses, the streets, the snow, the river, the roses, the girls, the sun, the ladies’ dresses and the gentleman’s voices, the old, wicked, hard-hearted women and the old, sad women, the waltz music — everything. What is not there you put in afterwards, for it is alive, this book, and it grows in your head. ‘The house I was living in when I read that book,’ you think, or ‘This color reminds me of that book.”
“Do not be sad. Or think Adieu. Never Adieu. We will watch the sun set again - many times, and perhaps we’ll see the Emerald Drop, the green flash that brings good fortune. And you must laugh and chatter as you used to do - telling me about the battle off the Saints or the picnic at Marie Galante - that famous picnic that turned into a fight. Or the pirates and what they did between voyages. For every voage might be their last. Sun and sangoree’s a heady mixture. Then - the earthquake. Oh yes, people say that god was angry at the things they did, woke from his sleep, one breath and they were gone.” —Jean Rhys (via halus)
“Do not be sad. Or think Adieu. Never Adieu. We will watch the sun set again - many times, and perhaps we’ll see the Emerald Drop, the green flash that brings good fortune. And you must laugh and chatter as you used to do - telling me about the battle off the Saints or the picnic at Marie Galante - that famous picnic that turned into a fight. Or the pirates and what they did between voyages. For every voage might be their last. Sun and sangoree’s a heady mixture. Then - the earthquake. Oh yes, people say that god was angry at the things they did, woke from his sleep, one breath and they were gone.” —Jean Rhys (via halus)
“Tonight, while walking to the car,
I said your name to the evening star,
clearly pronouncing the syllables
to see your name dissipate
in the air, evaporate.” —C. Dale Young, from “Night Air” (via proustitute)
I said your name to the evening star,
clearly pronouncing the syllables
to see your name dissipate
in the air, evaporate.” —C. Dale Young, from “Night Air” (via proustitute)
