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This silence is my companion now.
I ask: of what did my soul die?
and the silence answers

if your soul died, whose life
are you living and
when did you become that person?

Louise Glück from “Echoes
in Averno. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2006.

knowhomo

[via]

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Human freedom is a complex difficult—and private—thing. If we can liken life, for a moment, to a furnace, then freedom is the fire that burns away illusion.

JAMES BALDWIN, Nobody Knows My Name
see also: Notes of a Native Son

What are the boundaries between art and life? Between reader and writer, between fantasy and what is real? I need you to help me find out.

Call me—
xAlex

there_are_never_too_many_by_orain_seinn

Orain-seinn

proust

Perhaps the immobility of the things around us is imposed on them by our certainty that they are themselves and not anything else, by the immobility of our mind confronting them.

MARCEL PROUST Swann’s Way. trans. Lydia Davis. New York : Penguin, 2002. p66

missy sissies

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