framing asia

I see men assassinated around me every day. I walk through rooms of the dead, streets of the dead, cities of the dead; men without eyes, men without voices; men with manufactured feelings and standard reactions; men with newspaper brains, television souls and high school ideas.

I am not a woman, but the light that falls on this gate, on this ground. I am the seasons, I think sometimes, January, May, November; the mud, the mist, the dawn.

This is a little like hell; almost romantic.

The secret of genius is to carry the spirit of the child into old age, which mean never losing your enthusiasm.

requiemforthepast:

If there is any substitute for love, it is memory.

Don’t walk too far away from the child within you, and never abandon the sense of wonder that magnifies the smallest of things into mountains of joy. For one day, when you lose sight of happiness, that child within can guide you back to the things that once nourished your heart.

Rome, did you suffer a fire like mine? روما هل قاسيتي حريقا مثل حريقي