MESSENGER BIRD

The summer sun will set she said
If you leave it up there long
Take its beams and moon-time dreams
Leave town and be gone

I guess you can call that truth
I will call it lie
I will think of times gone by
When you and I were fine
I will hold those days up to my eye

Sometimes I don’t know what you were thinking of
All I want is someone to love

Take your time and talk to him
It matters not at all
I will give you time enough
To know him very well

I am locking down the house
Staring at the wall
All I want to do today is sleep like I once could
If you could give me that
That’d be good

Sometimes I don’t what you were thinking of
All I want is someone to love
All I want is someone to love
And you were pretty good to love
And you were pretty good to love

(Hey Marseilles, Someone to Love)

dream as high as you can reach in the sky above, so far out of sight, but there in the unseen place is where the inevitable lies. You may not see it now or even for a while, but eventually your high hopes and perseverance will crest the wake between the now and the what if, and you will eventually not regret any of the grunts and tears and dashed hopes you’ve suffered to arrive in that place that has been meant for you all along.

found via fashionising

“I have dreamed in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind.” (Emily Brontë)

“The very first thing he does is fix me with those wonderfully brown eyes and say, “It’s possible I’m too drunk to judge, but you might have something there.”

(Paula McLain, The Paris Wife)

“Here I end—

Krapp switches off, winds tape back, switches on again.

—upper lake, with the punt, bathed off the bank, then pushed out into the stream and drifted. She lay streched out on the floorboards with her hands under her head and her eyes closed. Sun blazing down, bit of a breeze, water nice and lively. I noticed a scratch on her thigh and asked her how she came by it. Picking gooseberries, she said. I said again I thought it was hopeless and no good going on, and she agreed, without opening her eyes.”

Samuel Beckett, “Krapp’s Last Tape”

via proustitute