Thank you, my dear
You came, and you did
well to come: I needed
you. You have made
love blaze up in
my breast—bless you!
Bless you as often
as the hours have
been endless to me
while you were gone
-Sappho, as translated by Mary Barnard
Andrei Zvyagintsev, Vozvrashchenie (The Return), 2003
(image via dlpalinckx)
“Always, everywhere, there is some voice crying from a tower.”
— The Quiet American, Graham Greene
Iron- Jane Cooper
Every morning I wake
with blood on my pillow
and the taste of fresh blood
like iron against my tongue.
They say my gums are inflamed
and the bleeding will cease
at first frost—
Each morning the sun wakes me.
I think some nerve is exposed—
it is only August—
or a fine skin was peeled off
the night you were killed.
Conversations at breakfast
have the stripped truth of poems.
All day I wait
for a miraculous letter.
In fact my whole life
leans forward slightly, waiting.
Each day lurches downhill
to its red undoing.
"The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd; the longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are."
Fernando Pessoa | Bernardo Soares, The Book of Disquiet (via itookadeepbreath)
"Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts."
Edgar Allan Poe (via dira)
