(no subject)
Inspiration is a delicate thing. like a fragile hummingbird making just enough noise to distract you and make you turn to see it. But the idea -- like it's wings -- are going much too fast to make sense of. It's gone before you even remember having it in the first place. An aspiration befallen to the darkness of the now. We are doomed to repeat this loss of imagination over and over until we too are lost to the darkness of death.
One day I'll catch that hummingbird. Decipher the meaning in it's wings.
When that day comes you'll have something more here.
Quote >
"Abashed the devil stood, and felt how awful goodness is!"
One day I'll catch that hummingbird. Decipher the meaning in it's wings.
When that day comes you'll have something more here.
Quote >
"Abashed the devil stood, and felt how awful goodness is!"