seen from Singapore
seen from China
seen from Australia
seen from Türkiye
seen from Kazakhstan
seen from Russia
seen from T1
seen from United States
seen from Vietnam
seen from Malaysia
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from United States
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seen from Germany
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seen from T1
I wanted to plummet and soar after my mother into her secret life, to follow the scent of bad nights, of salt and blood skittering through my heart, to steady myself on a pinpoint of air or a howl of wind.
- Paula Sharp, Waltzing through flaws
I wanted to forget everything cloaked in daylight...to flee back toward some blackness in the wind, flitting like those summer insects so agile they eluded bats, jeering and veering through violet twilight.
- Paula Sharp, Waltzing through flaws
It's not a good thing to fight people by sulking and slinking and smoldering around... I dont expect you to be brave all the time, but you should know that kind of fighting is cowardly. It allows you to march through the world like general, convinced that you must be right because you make sure you don't hear the other side of things.
- Paula Sharp, Waltzing through flaws
I felt our lives as a hurtling forward, a motion I followed unquestioningly, heedlessly, beyond the bounds of my imagination, and I assumed that was what adulthood was-- the place where you touches the bottom of bottomless depths and tapped the ceiling of the dizzying heights.
- Paula Sharp, Waltzing through flaws
Every morning I feel like I'm rising up out of my own grave, and every night I feel too exhausted to even die.
- Paula Sharp
Do you like this lake too? I try to stop here everyday, just for a few minutes, on my way to work or on my way home. It gives me time to-- to pull my pieces back together.
- Paula Sharp
She is the kind of woman who would be considered pretty if you saw her lying dead, in a coffin, improved with red lipstick. It’s only when the personality inside her to move that you begin to think otherwise.
Paula Sharp, Waltzing through flaws
The letters spiralled on and on, the same story retold with variations, until their redundancy formed a dense, hard obsidian ball of pain, meaningless and terrifying.
Crows Over a Wheatfield by Paula Sharp
