Richard Siken, The Torn-up Road

Time will tell, I suppose, or at least, these pages will.

“And you are my sacred book. My poem.” 

 – Umar Timol, from “Blood”, translated by Susan Wicks

You kinda have to just be insane. And keep doing that forever

on all levels but physical, i am bathing in a bath of rose petals in an abandoned castle with candles illuminating the room and calming but eerie piano music plays from a room down the corridor. i am at peace and the snow is falling outside

“Morning light can make the most vulgar things tolerable” — the secret history, by donna tartt.

Luigi Bazzani (1836 - 1927)

The Arch of Septimius Severus, Rome, 1900

they are the dusk that first kisses my cheek, their words a haunting ode to a lost goddess; ancient letters adorn the poems they’ve writtten and i consume each syllable feverishly, searching for my likeness within the epigram of their secret love

ig: rosenaufsuden

“There was a grand piano, too, and Charles was playing, a glass of whiskey on the seat beside him. He was a little drunk; the Chopin was slurred and fluid, the notes melting sleepily into one another. A breeze stirred the heavy, moth-eaten velvet curtains, ruffling his hair.”

remember, loneliness is still time spent with the world.

There are accepted revolutions, revolutions which are called revolutions; there are refused revolutions, which are called riots.

Victor Hugo, Les Miserables