|—||Aziz Ansari, Buried Alive (via isaaclahye)|
Billy Collins goes up to the counter and orders a coffee, black, with cream.It is warm, like childhood, like love, like losing yourself in your art.He holds the cup in his hands and stares across the room.There is a light on in the corner -Underneath it is a woman, reading a book.It is poetry. She is beautiful.Why do we write? Because we want to get back to that Starbucks,In that corner, with that cup of coffee.We want to be young again, and drinking coffee."Drink coffee with me," and she does.She is beautiful. It is poetry.
"She stands and moves within the invisible pentacle of her own virginity. She is an unbroken egg: she is a sealed vessel; she has inside her a magic space the entrance to which is shut tight with a plug of membrane; she is a closed system; she does not know how to shiver."
— Angela Carter, The Bloody Chamber
African hut or whatever, I hope Holly has, too.
Then starting home, he walked toward the trees, and under them, leaving behind him the big sky, the whisper of wind voices in the wind-bent wheat.
from In Cold Blood
Here is what I had written him: Hello pop hope you are well I am and I am lurning to pedal my plain so fast I will soon be in the sky so keep your eyes open and yes I love you Buddy.
from One Christmas
She beckoned to him, shining and silver, and he knew he must go: unafraid, not hesitating, he paused only at the garden’s edge where, as though he’d forgotten something, he stopped and looked back at the bloomless, descending blue, at the boy he had left behind.
We watched until he turned a bend at the corner, innocent of the menace he carried, the chrysanthemums that burned, that growled and roared against a greenly lowering dusk.
it is not an achievement
and that comparing yourself
or your life
to other people
with similar problems
is never going to give you
an accurate picture
or enable you
to be proud
of the fact
you woke up this morning
and got breakfast
and you didn’t hurt yourself last night.