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It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.

Maud Hart Lovelace, Betsy-Tacy and Tib

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by Ackteon

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Paul Valéry, from a diary entry featured in The Idea of Perfection; The Poetry and Prose of Paul Valéry

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it's rotten work, but without the rot nothing can grow

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This silence is my companion now. I ask: of what did my soul die? and the silence answers if your soul died, whose life are you living and when did you become that person?

Louise Glück, from “Echoes” in Averno

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No one talks to ghosts unless they’re scared or lonely. And even then, they pretend we aren’t really there.

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‘I took my grief down to the river to drown it there but it was the grief that carried me and it won’t be bringing me home.’ - Katie Maria

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Image by Hidden Paradise