“We are our memory,
we are that chimerical museum of shifting shapes,
that pile of broken mirrors”
—
Jorge Luis Borges, “Cambridge” 1969
(via
xshayarsha)
“I try to swallow myself
whole but I am all wishbone
and splintered edges. Imagine
the gears of a clock worn
away with time. Eroded to
sharp points. Brittle, snap.
At least I tried. Blood runs
down your chin. ‘So did I,’
you say. ‘So did I.’”
“the cosmos unravels from my mouth,”
— margaret atwood, excerpt of
half-hanged mary (via
saintjoan)
“I have built, deep in my heart, a chapel filled with you.”
—
Marcel Proust,
in a letter to Anatole France, from Selected Letters: 1880-1903
(via idalias)
“your smile reminds me
of how the sky looks in the morning,
of how the sun shines down
in fractured beams / shattered light
on burnt orange fields of wheat like
golden fingers reaching upwards.”
“As transient as a mere dream is precious youth.”
