the book of kels

Not friends, not enemies, just strangers with memories.

A great fire burns within me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it, and passers-by only see a wisp of smoke.

Alice asked the Cheshire Cat, who was sitting in a tree, “What road do I take?” The cat asked, “Where do you want to go?” “I don’t know,” Alice answered. “Then,” said the cat, “it really doesn’t matter, does it?”

She had a passionate longing for the garden, the darkness, the pure sky, the stars.

We find ourselves in the sacrifices we make.

“He looked at her as a man might look at a faded flower he had plucked, in which it was difficult for him to trace the beauty that had made him pick and so destroy it.”

Some girls are full of heartache and poetry and those are the kind of girls who try to save wolves instead of running away from them.

It was a strange winter and nothing and everything happened.

It’s a pale, silent day: I would like to be walking in a wood, far away.

I’m full of poetry now. Rot and poetry. Rotten poetry.