He moved slowly across the room, eyes fixed on hers, deliberate in his movements. She stiffened, her tongue straining at the roof of her mouth, her fingers clutching at the bed sheets in front of her. All the hierarchies of the daytime were obsolete. His body ruled now, sleek and powerful, a gleaming brown machine that moved with feline accuracy. Seeing this, she softened, letting her body take its natural stance, letting herself flow into herself. And he reached out a hand and place his rough skin against the velvet of her back, pulling her into his shadow. She let out a breath that had been swollen inside of her for what seemed like eons. This was it. They both knew this moment had been coming, but she still felt her skin prick and her bones tremble. His hand slid up her back, onto her neck and into her hair, clenching into a fist. She closed her eyes, but he pulled her head back and down so that her eyes met his, and her parted lips glistened in the light of the bedside lamp. Minutes passed, the sun circled the earth, and the moon moved between them as they searched for themselves in each other’s eyes. And then he bent to kiss her, sliding his left hand up her thigh and letting his fingers slide softly into the warmth that lay between her pale legs. And then they were both lost, slipping momentarily into consciousness like dolphins coming up for air and then diving down to explore the depths of their desire. And the moon waxed gibbous in the sky. And the sun burned brightly in their eyes.

Moment #5

The are knives hanging from the wall in the kitchen

I can see them from where I sit

All sleek and silver, stuck to a magnet

But straining to be let loose


There are flowers in the garden outside

Flowers in the garden, somewhere

But it’s dark

And my sense of smell has never been that good


There is static on a radio

And old songs and new music and trembling voices

And my own breathing

Weaving in and out of the milleu


There is a light that flickers poetically in the hall

And a trashcan outside, just sitting there

And me, just sitting here, talking rubbish


And the knives on the wall

Biding time


Bob Dylan by Daniel Kramer, alternate photo from photoshoot for the cover sleeve of Bringing It All Back Home, 1965


Bob Dylan by Daniel Kramer, alternate photo from photoshoot for the cover sleeve of Bringing It All Back Home, 1965

(via sophiaphile)

writing tips


1) fuck up your life in as many ways as possible and then write about it, cause that’s what you were gonna do anyway.

“She could just distinguish his features, as he slept the perfect sleep. In this darkness, she seemed to see him so distinctly. But he was far off, in another world. Ah, she could shriek with torment, he was so far off, and perfected, in another world. She seemed to look at him as at a pebble far away under clear dark water. And here was she, left with all the anguish of consciousness, whilst he was sunk deep into the other element of mindless, remote, living shadow-gleam. He was beautiful, far-off, and perfected. They would never be together. Ah, this awful, inhuman distance which would always be interposed between her and the other being! There was nothing to do but to lie still and endure. She felt an overwhelming tenderness for him, and a dark, under-stirring of jealous hatred, that he should lie so perfect and immune, in an other-world, whilst she was tormented with violent wakefulness, cast out in the outer darkness.”
“I should feel the air move against me, and feel the things I touched, instead of having only to look at them. I’m sure life is all wrong because it has become much too visual - we can neither hear nor feel nor understand, we can only see. I’m sure that is entirely wrong.”
— ― D.H. Lawrence, Women in Love


I have
I have nothing
I have nothing new
I have nothing new to
I have nothing new to say
All my words are borrowed
And words are thoughts and thoughts are feelings and I am nothing new
I am nothing new
I am nothing
I am