- untitled seems apropos -

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throwing muses - flood

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i will remember your small room the feel of you the light in the window your records your books our morning coffee our noons our nights our bodies spilled together sleeping the tiny flowing currents immediate & forever your leg my leg your arm my arm your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.

bukowski

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in the last hours of him who lies untended on a cold field at night, & sees the hard bright stars above his upturned face, & says aloud ‘how strange … my life is ended.’— if in the past he loved great music much, & knew it well, let not his lapsing mind be teased by well-beloved but ill- remembered bars — let the full symphony across the blood-soaked field by him be heard, most pure in every part, the lonely horror of whose painful death is thus repealed, who dies with quiet tears upon his upturned face, making to glow w/ softness the hard stars.

edna st. vincent millay

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dum dum girls - coming down

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damaged people are dangerous.

josephine hart

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exitmusic - the hours

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i do not love men: i love what devours them.

andré gide

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the dresden dolls - the perfect fit 

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