[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— Nikita Gill

[fatimazainab]

Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

[theoptia]

Rainer Maria Rilke, from Rilke and Andreas-Salomé: A Love Story in Letters

Text ID: You give dreams to my night, songs to my morning, aims to my day, and sun-wishes to my red dusk. You give without end. And I kneel and hold my arms up to receive your grace.

[velartis]

John Martin - Pandemonium (1841)

[vvanillavveins]

I don't think we give Jonathan Harker nearly enough credit for his absolutely unhinged choices. In 1897, that pathetic wet cat of a man was written with enough grit, willpower, and raw human stupidity to rival any of our modern horror podcast protagonists. When faced with a centuries-old vampire, in a coffin, drenched in fresh blood, he really thought the best thing to do was to hit it in the face WITH A SHOVEL. The audacity. The misplaced confidence. The sheer desperation. No plan. No hesitation. Running on fear and spite alone. And i fucking love him for it. Truly the character of all time.

[feral-ballad]

Zehra Naqvi, from The Knot of My Tongue: Poems and Prose; “Dear Baba”

[feral-ballad]

Maya C. Popa, from Wound is the Origin of Wonder: Poems: “All inner life runs at some delay”

[petrichorals]

“I forgot softness because it did not serve me.”

— Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless (via aryasnow)

[antigonick]

“You look like a winter night. I could sleep inside the cold of you.”

— Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless

[violentwavesofemotion]

“Dark. Very still. Night. Its livingness I want to feel and quiet.”

— Franz Kafka, from The Penal Colony: Stories; “A Hunger Artist,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[lifeinpoetry]

“I am famine for you. I am war for you. I want to be apocalyptic, something only the end can see.”

— Venetta Octavia, from “And I Will Raze You All to the Ground,” Prelude to Light

[feral-ballad]

Jennifer S. Cheng, So We Must Meet Apart; “August 24, 2018”

[latibule-e-deactivated20231012]

— Alice Notley, from “I suppose this is all a lefthand path.”

[soracities]

Angela Carter, The Magic Toyshop

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

[endless-unfolding]

“Know this: I live beast days. I am a water hour. At night my eyelids droop like forest and sky. My love knows few words: I like it in your blood.”

— Gottfried Benn, “Threat,” trans. Michael Hofmann, Poetry (March 2011)

[pilgrimattinkercreek1974]

woolgathering by patti smith

[weltenwellen]

Anais Nin, Mirages: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anais Nin, 1939-1947