“I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights sleep, worked too long and too hard in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I’ve lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not as a punishment.”—John Steinbeck (via thatkindofwoman)
“Let me lie alone on my back in tall grass and see the sun and the water droplets on the branches and the red tree trunks through my own eyes. Let me color them and build them with my own words. Lonely, strong words. Let me stand alone at the edge of the earth and look at it honestly, alone.”—Rachel Corrie, Let Me Stand Alone: The Journals of Rachel Corrie (via mirroir)
“In my mind I am eloquent; I can climb intricate scaffolds of words to reach the highest cathedral ceilings and paint my thoughts. But when I open my mouth, everything collapses.”—Warm Bodies by Isaac Marion (via cuntented)
You write lines of poetry on your body, curving against the blush of your forearm, trailing along the flat of your stomach, pressing into the hopeful skin of your thighs. Letters fade into the cavern of your palms, smoothed away by the movement of daily life. Lingering.