The writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one. He has a dream. It anguishes him so much he must get rid of it. He has no peace until then. Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency, security, happiness, all, to get the book written. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ is worth any number of old ladies.William Faulkner (via observando)
I love watching you cry in the same way that poets love to throw themselves from bridges. I know that that makes no sense. I know it and I don’t give a damn because you’re beautiful even when you’re crying and even while your tears are tearing up my heart into tiny pieces in the prettiest way possible. I swear to God nothing I ever try to say to you ever makes any sense, but I don’t give a damn. Maybe it’s better that way.
Act my age?
What the fuck is that, “act my age”?
What do I care how old I am?
The Ocean is old as fuck.
It will still drown your ass with vigor.
Dear Miss Blonde Hair and Green Eyes,
I’ve never been one to wear my heart on my sleeve. That being said, it must’ve been quite an arduous feat to dig it from my chest cavity. However, I would like it back.
I remember when the surgery first started. I was high on your anesthetic kisses and couldn’t have been happier anywhere other than your surgeon’s table. I was really quite ready for the incisions and the risks—I was ready to walk down a dead-end street with you, hand in hand, marching towards a heartbroken sunset. I was ready for the scars.
And I suppose you could say that the procedure was a success, after all, you’re the one with my heart. It was dastardly simple: you held my hand as I fell, you maintained proper footing, then you let our fingers slip apart, and then I fell some more—my heart more or less safe in your care.
You know the intricacies of the situation. Your laughter decorating my walls. Your tears painting my shoulder. Your lips igniting mine. Your eyes searing the breath in my lungs. My trust in your back pocket. Mistakenly sending the wrong pair of pants through the wash and disposing of the damaged lined paper. Skittles in your glove box. Books on your bedroom floor. Movies on your bookcase. Sweaters in the back seat of your car and sunflowers on your stove. That sort of thing. Anyway, I’m rambling, I’d like my heart back. You can keep the other things that I’ve left in your car and house if you really want, but I’d like my heart. I think it’s in the corner of your closet under your pink running shoes. You can drop it off whenever.
Sorry about the late replies anons, July’s been crazy and full of all sorts of fireworks.
That’s hard! Either the Oregon coast, San Francisco, or some nameless aspen grove in the Uintah mountains.
Curious, confused, excited, passionate, and informed
Won’t continue to slip
But I have
A sinking feeling
That our love