Everything’s looted, betrayed and traded, black death’s wing’s overhead. Everything’s eaten by hunger, unsated, so why does a light shine ahead?
By day, a mysterious wood, near the town, breathes out cherry, a cherry perfume. By night, on July’s sky, deep, and transparent, new constellations are thrown.
And something miraculous will come close to the darkness and ruin, something no-one, no-one, has known, though we’ve longed for it since we were children.
Funny thing how Non-Practicing Roman Catholic guilt sticks around like the lingering cough a smoker inherits after a small cold. Writing blogs doesn't make me a writer. I want to be that writer who toils over a 1958 orange and tan Eagle typewriter smoking countless cigarettes and drinking bourbon from the bottle, ignoring humanity and cursing social relations. I want to be that writer who wanders aimlessly around in her underwear, in an oversized empty apartment with dark hardwood floors and a balcony that overlooks nothing but an alley with empty dumpsters. Lazing about, making lots of love, writing wonderful things about nothing and everything, while being a bohemian gypsy whackjob. I posess no social grace. I am, in fact, socially awkward and I smoke a lot as I churn out tons of shitty prose. That's about it. -HG
I merely took the energy it takes to pout and wrote some blues.
* Duke Ellington
Eccentricity is not, as dull people would have us believe, a form of madness. It is often a kind of innocent pride, and the man of genius and the aristocrat are frequently regarded as eccentrics because genius and aristocrat are entirely unafraid of and uninfluenced by the opinions and vagaries of the crowd.
* Edith Sitwell
The only people for me are the mad ones,the ones who are mad to live,mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous roman candles exploding across the stars.
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