maxrecords asked: I missed you. x

And I you, dove — please don’t allow transparency to ever swallow you up for too long. x

Déjà Vu by Nin Andrews

The first time I met you, I knew you would leave me. It would happen suddenly, perhaps on a Thursday. Already I possessed the memory of it. An autumn evening spent like so many drab moments, tiny grey ones, followed by weeks of shadows. Perhaps it occurred while watching each other through a haze of exhaustion and cigarette smoke, at dusk in some dingy restaurant, the candles sputtering, and outside, rain gushing through the drainpipes, winged maple seeds spinning past our window. We didn’t even notice the change at first. Everything looked so tired. Even the apartment buildings looming across the street like lit honeycombs kept closing their shades. And the truth is never obvious anymore. Why should it be? Habit prevents us from noticing the subtle changes - the feeling that everyone is holding his breath, like the hush when a symphony stops playing, and nobody blows his nose. We hear in the orchestra, not Mozart or a drum beat, but the drip of a faucet. Each drop is our universe, waiting to fall.

horasmortas asked: Tag, you’re it! Here are the rules: Each tagged person must post ten things about themselves. You have to choose and tag ten people. Go to their blogs and tell them you tagged them. No tagging back. :)

001. I am a perpetual sky-gazer; I watch dusk each day and allow the stars to consume me.

002. I am a dreamer of poetic want-to-be’s and never-will-be’s.

003. I live in an imaginary world full of seas that hold the tears of the melancholic and captains with rosebeds for hearts.

004. I often find myself writing in code without quite realizing so.

005. I suffer from perpetual translucency — it has been said that my very skin is an invisibility cloak.

006. I always read the last line of a book before ever reading the first.

007. I awake each morning with the hope that tomorrow will be gloomier.

008. I am a collector of buttons, lace ribbons, feathers and first pages of books I’ve read.

009. I am always getting in trouble by Maman for click-clacking away at my typewriter in the middle of the night.

010. I find it terribly easy to lose myself in places that hold books.

Under Milk Wood

Come closer now.

Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night. Only you can see, in the blinded bedrooms, the coms and petticoats over the chairs, the jugs and the basins, the glasses of teeth, Thou Shalt Not on the wall, and the yellowing dickybird-watching pictures of the dead. Only you can hear and see, behind the eyes of the sleepers, the movements and countries and mazes and colours and dismays and rainbows and tunes and wishes and flight and fall and despairs and big seas of their dreams.

From where you are, you can hear their dreams.

Dylan Thomas