November 2010
“Ransack the language as he might, words failed him. He wanted another landscape,...”
– Orlando, Virginia Woolf (via hellosole)
"i don't care much for postponing. in fact i hate...
What stiffles a kiss,
like the space between him and me?
Those fields I wish I did not have to cross?
The dull and slumber heat of a train,
moving rapidly from a city to another,
but clearly not rapidly enough?
What brings a kiss forth,
like the look on his face when he looks at me?
His caress? The way he stands next to me in a rough wind?
What keeps me there, in a kiss,
like the lenght...
