Scraps of madness

the devil was calling for her; but she was not yet ready to go home.

but in our story, who is the monster at the end of the book? oh my love, the monster is time.

she kissed the moon and returned back home with a note that read: with love, the galaxy.

We are unusual and tragic and alive.

your hands are wet with the blood of an empire. you lick it off.

this is what everyone wants: to breathe in the nectar from the mouths of their dead gods, run a finger over their sugar-dusted tongues; remember the things that didn’t happen.

Admire as much as you can. Most people do not admire enough.

Q: what does it mean to be a writer? A: always falling in love with the beautiful and the broken. (too often, they are one and the same.)

I was deliberately lonely. I liked the edgy solitude of nighttime walks. I liked spending time on my own over a cup of coffee, looking out on a street. I discovered there was something familiar and consoling about urban shapes: a vista of umbrellas or an infantry of feet moving towards a traffic light. By day, I read Latin; at night I read Yeats and tried to write my own poetry. By day I touched the granite and marble of words. At nighttime I followed language into a land of hurt and disappointment. When I wrote, I felt the vulnerabilities of language and its exposures. I felt the strangeness of it all.

I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.

mellifluous, here the crackle of new skin, raw fangs sink, flesh of fruit

La tristesse durera toujours [The sadness will last forever].

O Achilles, You were never made a God, But you were remembered. You were remembered.

I don’t think I deserve any happiness. You broke and ruined me and made me cold like you. Now I am just entering peoples’ heart and corrupting them like you corrupted me. I’m angry at you and yet I keep hurting others. You taught me a new way of living and I am loving it way too much.

THE WORLD HAD BURNED; AND A GIRL WAS BORN FROM ITS ASHES. BREATHING ITS FIRE. AND TORCHING ITS MONSTERS TO THE GROUND