[flowerytale]

Anne Sexton, from A Self-Portrait In Letters

[especially]

[dafancyuhinspiration]

[quotemadness]

I needed to be somewhere different. Maybe I needed to be someone different, too.

Heather Davis

[1617]

[unpenny]

[…] perché commuoversi non significa piangere, ma muoversi insieme alle cose, averne il medesimo ritmo, il medesimo passo, il medesimo polso.

Pierluigi Cappello

[neckkiss]

[scorpy]

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

“All roads lead to you, even those I took to forget you.”

— Mahmoud Darwish

[wordscanbeenough]

“And I saw it didn’t matter / who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone.”

— Dorianne Laux, from “After Twelve Days of Rain”, What We Carry

[weltenwellen]

When someone dies their silence becomes a sort of held note, a key on the piano pressed down for so long it becomes an ache in the ear, a new sonic register from which we start to measure our new, ruptured lives. A white noise. Maybe this is why there is so much music in dying: the funerals, the singing, the hymns, the eulogies. All those sounds crowding the air with what the dead can’t say.

Ocean Vuong, The Weight of Our Living: On Hope, Fire Escapes, and Visible Desperation

[feral-ballad]

Blythe Baird, from If My Body Could Speak; “Theories about the universe”

[Text ID: “When I want something / with my whole being, and the universe withholds it / from me, I hope the universe thinks to herself, / Silly girl. She thinks this is what she wants, / but she does not understand how it will hurt.”]

[soracities]

Angela Carter, The Magic Toyshop

[Text ID: “October, crisp, misty, golden October, when the light is sweet and heavy.”]

[dfj-9-deactivated20250823]

I accepted it already but it still makes me sad

[7nmr]

I get really quiet, when my mind is too loud.

[sonoperennementeincasinata]

[yms1]

So ready for hoodies and cold nights.