WRITER AESTHETICS
JOHN KEATS. the lavender in sunsets . flowers in the rain . sunlight slipping through clouds . lazy summer afternoons . the heavy scent of musk . flickering candlelight reflecting off the gold titles of books . fireflies on a cool summer night . being wrapped in fresh bed sheets . the ache of wanting what you can never have . dripping sunlight like gold . loving someone so exquisite . soft lips and soft whispers . fingers through hair . names of lovers carved in trees . broken glass . the insistence of being perpetually dreamy
F. SCOTT FITZGERALD. mahogany wood . crisp winter skies with cold bright stars. the solitude of an early autumn morning wrapped in fog . empty bottles on stacks and stacks of books haphazardly placed in a messy room . pale bruised arms reaching out into the darkness . cigarette smoke just barely hiding the scent of alcohol . a wall of books all poetry and old and weathered . a bad thunderstorm occurring at the end of a beautiful day . the way tragedy strikes in your heart but ends up stopping your breathing for a moment . your favorite sweater . parties spilling into four a.m. with the stars above spinning and dancing . the contrast of blood against snow . a purple split lip oozing blood . black eyes fading to blue to pale skin . the butterflies of falling in love for the first time . the statues falling apart over time in cemeteries . the romanticization of self-destruction.
FRANZ KAFKA. the weight of dread that sits heavily in your stomach when thinking about the future . decrepit houses cloaked in mystery from children telling stories of people who died there . the way not even light can escape a black hole . the rich smell of old books . delicate veins in the wrist . ghosts filling lungs . shattered bones . raindrops on the tongue . rusting metal . nostalgia that aches . the way hope feels like a plastic bag over your head
H.P. LOVECRAFT. the anxiety felt when staring into an unknown cave .pouring rain and mud . a child’s fear of the dark . thinking so many questions about your existence as you stare at the vast expanse of never ending ocean . the silence of three a.m. .danse macabre by camille saint-saens playing on a record in an empty house . the possibility of aliens and the weird feeling it gives you that you can’t explain . unexplainable phenomena, strange lights in the sky in the dead of night .ouija boards and urban legends
JACK KEROUAC. the brisk pine air of being on a mountain . travels without a destination . those nights where you’re missing three hours of memory . screaming to a lifeless desert about how you’re so alive . coffee shops late at night . car rides at night spent speeding and laughing in the dark . naps spent in the sun . novels highlighted and underlined with notes and epiphanies in the margins . the way uncertainty sits on the shoulders . ignoring flaws and loving life . wind through hair, depression as fog in the brain . impossible ideals . a quiet sunrise . walks alone . when you think about trying to discover all the secrets to the universe . dazzling people . open lands stretching out into infinity . falling in love with being alive
EDGAR ALLAN POE. the ocean’s horizon inseparable from fog . hollow bones . a preserved heart held in hands . twinkling stars above an old graveyard . the way everything turns to dust . silent black birds with eyes full of wisdom . self-inflicted flames . perfection depicted as a rotting corpse . death as bricks in the heart . lips barely brushing against each other . glassy glazed eyes . biting into a lemon . heart-shaped bruises . rotting flowers on a grave . dried blood and spilled liquor . the hush of dusk when it begins raining . the intimacy of a secret
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