(no subject)
Shouted at girls ten stories below my window (walking by)
"I WILL LOVE YOU. I WILL BE GOOD TO YOU AND TREAT YOU RIGHT."
Upton Sinclair can write. He just chose the wrong topics. Never write about politics because in 100 years it will be irrelevant and no one will know or care what you are talking about. He could've been dostoyevski.
i lay down with the southern range
...a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.
Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother's face; from the prison of her flesh have we come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth.
Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father's heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?
O waste of loss, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this most weary unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When?
O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again.
"I WILL LOVE YOU. I WILL BE GOOD TO YOU AND TREAT YOU RIGHT."
Upton Sinclair can write. He just chose the wrong topics. Never write about politics because in 100 years it will be irrelevant and no one will know or care what you are talking about. He could've been dostoyevski.
i lay down with the southern range
...a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.
Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother's face; from the prison of her flesh have we come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth.
Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father's heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?
O waste of loss, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this most weary unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost lane-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When?
O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again.