By The Truth We Are Undone. Life Is A Dream. ‘Tis Waking That Kills Us.

17th century astronomical art of Maria Clara Eimmart; celestial splendor from a forgotten woman who broke the bounds of her time.

(brainpickings.org)

as if you could not enjoy love without pain.

Anaïs Nin, Henry and June

I look at you as if I were looking for the first time.

Adriana Szymańska, Ode to a Man tr. Regina Grol

in 2005, bon iver locked himself in a log cabin in wisconsin for a now-legendary vibe check

tragedy is thinking in action, thinking upon action, for the sake of action

- Simon Critchley, Tragedy, the Greeks, and Us

There is no question I am someone starving. There is no question I am making this journey to find out what that appetite is. And I see him free of it, as if he had simply crossed to the other side of the bridge, I see desire set free in him like some ray of mysterious light. Now tell me the truth, would you cross that bridge if you came to it? And where, if you made the grave choice to give up bread, would it take you?

Anne Carson, Kinds of Water

he does not understand the reason for the moon

Garous Abdolmalekian, Long Poem of Loneliness tr. Ahmed Nadalizadeh and Idra Novey

the precise sound of a flower bud

- Ross Gay, Weeping

I’ve felt a peculiar attachment to the t’s of the past: weep, wept, sleep, slept, leave, left. There’s a finality there,

- Heather Christle, The Crying Book

Seam: ‘Interviewer’s Note IV’ by Tarfia Faizullah