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It’s your flaws I want to taste. Your crooked mouth. The way you smell after being out all day. Your knees, so eager to bend to whatever song is playing in your head. Your chest, as it rises and falls and rises and falls on the carpeted ground. Your sometimes smooth chin. Your pimpled politeness. Your tangled hair. Your good morning, every morning. I don’t want to be able to run my fingers through you easily. It is no fun writing about perfections. I want to talk about you. Flawed. Crooked. Endlessly interesting. You.

Lora Mathis, Black Coffee (via thelovejournals)

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Do you think anger is a sincere emotion or the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain?

Andrea Gibson, “Asking Too Much” (via wordsnquotes)

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Bookish adventures ☾

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She reminded me of the sea; the way she came dancing towards you, wild and beautiful, and just when she was almost close enough to touch she’d rush away again.

Glenda Millard (via quotemadness)

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I love you. I know you do too. As a kid I always wanted to measure love. I love you more than you love me! I grew up and realized that was really silly. Love isn’t math; there is no formula for that. So I stopped such comparative analysis. I believed love is love. All love is great love. But oh how smart the child me was. Of course love can be measured! Not in numbers but in emotions. You make me smile. I make you laugh. I wipe your tears. You cause mine to flow. You make me cancel all my plans for you. I am your last resort. I love you when I’m happy and when I’m sad. There are no seasons for my love. No conditions. You love me when you receive love from no one. You love me only because you want me to love you back. So yes, now I know, love can be measured. And baby, surely, I love you more.

18blackhearts (via wnq-writers)

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I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong.

Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey (via bananalassi)

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And now it’s in you, secrecy. Ancient and vicious, luscious as dark velvet. It blooms in you a poppy made of ink.

Margaret Atwood, from Secrecy (via violentwavesofemotion)

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I am that clumsy human, always loving, loving, loving. And loving. And never leaving.

Frida Kahlo, The Diary Of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait (via fridakahlo-art)

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“… like two unhurried compass needles the feet turned towards the right; north, north-east, south, south-south-west; then paused, and after a few seconds, turned as unhurriedly back towards the left”- lines from the last page of Brave New World by Adolus Huxely

ink and crayon- inspired by keith Haring

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Dr. Angelou described her writing process in the Plimpton interview:

I have kept a hotel room in every town I’ve ever lived in. I rent a hotel room for a few months, leave my home at six, and try to be at work by six-thirty. To write, I lie across the bed, so that this elbow is absolutely encrusted at the end, just so rough with callouses. I never allow the hotel people to change the bed, because I never sleep there. I stay until twelve-thirty or one-thirty in the afternoon, and then I go home and try to breathe; I look at the work around five; I have an orderly dinner—proper, quiet, lovely dinner; and then I go back to work the next morning. Sometimes in hotels I’ll go into the room and there’ll be a note on the floor which says, Dear Miss Angelou, let us change the sheets. We think they are moldy. But I only allow them to come in and empty wastebaskets. I insist that all things are taken off the walls. I don’t want anything in there. I go into the room and I feel as if all my beliefs are suspended. Nothing holds me to anything. No milkmaids, no flowers, nothing. I just want to feel and then when I start to work I’ll remember. I’ll read something, maybe the Psalms, maybe, again, something from Mr. Dunbar, James Weldon Johnson. And I’ll remember how beautiful, how pliable the language is, how it will lend itself. If you pull it, it says, OK.” I remember that and I start to write.

You could always tell Dr. Angelou had been writing because she played with her hair. As a result, she started to tie it back while she was writing. Dr. Angelou explained her hair ties to The Daily Beast:

Well, I was married a few times, and one of my husbands was jealous of me writing. When I write, I tend to twist my hair. Something for my small mind to do, I guess. When my husband would come into the room, he’d accuse me, and say, “You’ve been writing!” As if it was a bad thing. He could tell because of my hair, so I learned to hide my hair with a turban of some sort.

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Some words to use when writing things:

winking

clenching

pulsing

fluttering

contracting

twitching

sucking

quivering

pulsating

throbbing

beating

thumping

thudding

pounding

humming

palpitate

vibrate

grinding

crushing

hammering

lashing

knocking

driving

thrusting

pushing

force

injecting

filling

dilate

stretching

lingering

expanding

bouncing

reaming

elongate

enlarge

unfolding

yielding

sternly

firmly

tightly 

harshly

thoroughly

consistently

precision

accuracy

carefully

demanding

strictly

restriction

meticulously

scrupulously

rigorously

rim

edge

lip

circle

band

encircling

enclosing

surrounding

piercing

curl

lock

twist

coil

spiral

whorl

dip

wet

soak

madly

wildly

noisily

rowdily

rambunctiously

decadent

degenerate

immoral

indulgent

accept

take

invite

nook

indentation

niche

depression

indent

depress

delay

tossing

writhing

flailing

squirming

rolling

wriggling

wiggling

thrashing

struggling

grappling

striving

straining

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I am a cemetery abhorred by the moon, In which long worms crawl like remorse.

Charles Baudelaire, The Flowers of Evil (via tsarkoshei)

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[…] there is a luxury in being quiet in the heart of chaos.

Virginia Woolf, The Diary of Virginia Woolf  (via c-ovet)

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Don’t bring up the past of a person who is trying to improve their future

(via kangalex)

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I am hopelessly in love with a memory. An echo from another time, another place.

Michael Faudet  (via michaelfaudet)