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Sharp white spires of thought, thin as needles, pierced the sky, pierced everything on the ground.
Someone once said that we get more difficult to love with each passing year because, over time, our histories grow so tangled that newcomers can no longer bushwhack their way into the thicketed and overgrown depths of our hearts. I’d search and cite those words for you if I could. I’d really like to give proper credit
Nobody says these things—it’s against the rules—but deep inside we know that we are, each of us, unknowable and ultimately alone, even when we love.
Love lives someplace else. Is that it? Or are there simply no words for what I’m trying to say?
suffering without the catharsis of sound is a terrible thing to behold.
Never sleeping means that he is ceaselessly himself—and the honest-to-Bosch truth is that that has to be a good working definition of Hell.
What we used to blithely call ‘wasting time’ was actually a euphemism for the tenement architecture of our lives; there wasn’t an ounce of waste in a ton of those lost hours.
