Honestly, you just take a deep breath and say fuck it. — Johnny Knoxville
All things are taken away. Indeed, indeed. But we secretly think of our bodies in the heart’s storm and just after. And the sound of careless happiness. We touch finally only a little. Like the shy tongue that come fleetingly in the dark. The acute little that is there. —Jack Gilbert, from “The Abundant Little,”… Continue reading Jack Gilbert
That’s what it feels like when you touch me. Like millions of tiny universes being born and then dying in the space between your finger and my skin. Sometimes I forget. — Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You . (Central Avenue Publishing December 1, 2011)
There is that sound like the wind Forgetting in the branches that means something Nobody can translate. And there is the sobering ‘later on,’ When you consider what a thing meant, and put it down. — John Ashbery, from “Summer,” Selected Poems (Viking Penguin, 1985)
[P]hilosophy is the art of masking inner torments. — Emil M. Cioran, On the Heights of Despair. (University Of Chicago Press; 1 edition October 1, 1996) Originally published 1933.
We were pieces of a blackboard upon which last rites were written and did not care who could or could not see that we were gods and you were not ever coming home, in spite of the mourners’ deeply foolish love we could imagine only by flying into the sun, where every grief is charred… Continue reading Christopher Howell
Perhaps an individual must consider his own death to be the final phenomenon of nature. ― Stephen Crane, from “The Open Boat,” The Open Boat and Other Stories. (Dover Publications; English Language edition May 12, 1993) Originally published 1898.