They all tell her not to fight fire with fire,
but that is only because they are afraid of her flames.

You are a monster.

I give you my heart but this is what I get.

My lips are red from the bite of your teeth
My skin burns, caused by the fire called your hands
My heart is an open wound from an irreparable tear
You say you don’t love me but your claws refuse to let go

You are a monster, so you won’t
So I’ve decided to let you stay
Tears morphed to steel
Emotions twisted to armor

My heart still beats red, but no longer hurts for you
I grab your hands with just as much fire as you do
You start to attack less
Celebrating in the response that’s been given to you

More twisted grins, lesser cruel snarls
More somewhat welcome mornings than long nights in cages
I learn how you work and revel in how well I’ve worked you
Spirit burns fiery red not cool blue

You’re a monster
But I have tamed you

Or have I become one too?

Jorge Luis Borges, “Ragnarök” (trans. Andrew Hurley)
“We drew our heavy revolvers (suddenly in the dream there were revolvers) and exultantly killed the gods.”
Emil Cioran (via tri-ciclo)
“Man starts over again everyday, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows.”
Lisel Mueller, “The End of Science Fiction”


This is not fantasy, this is our life.
We are the characters
who have invaded the moon,
who cannot stop their computers.
We are the gods who can unmake
the world in seven days.

Both hands are stopped at noon.
We are beginning to live forever,
in lightweight, aluminum bodies
with numbers stamped on our backs.
We dial our words like Muzak.
We hear each other through water.

The genre is dead. Invent something new.
Invent a man and a woman
naked in a garden,
invent a child that will save the world,
a man who carries his father
out of a burning city.
Invent a spool of thread
that leads a hero to safety,
invent an island on which he abandons
the woman who saved his life
with no loss of sleep over his betrayal.

Invent us as we were
before our bodies glittered
and we stopped bleeding:
invent a shepherd who kills a giant,
a girl who grows into a tree,
a woman who refuses to turn
her back on the past and is changed to salt,
a boy who steals his brother’s birthright
and becomes the head of a nation.
Invent real tears, hard love,
slow-spoken, ancient words,
difficult as a child’s
first steps across a room.

The Flies (Jean Paul Sartre)
“It’s strange. I felt less lonely when I didn’t know you.”
Amy Poehler (via androphilia)
“Other people are not medicine.”
Margaret Atwood (via colossalvitalityofillusion)

Your language hangs around your neck,
a noose, a heavy necklace;
each word is empire,
each word is vampire and mother.

As for the sun, there are as many
suns as there are words for sun;

false or true?

Thomas Iain. I Wrote This For You. (via pythons)
“Here is the simple truth about people: Love the ones you want to keep.”


Haruki Murakami, “Concerning the Sound of a Train Whistle in the Night or On the Efficacy of Fiction”


Waiting for Godot - S.Beckett.

Waiting for Godot - S.Beckett.