We're basking in language itself. The silence of my friend. My love. The one beyond words in her silence. She is always eternally before. When she speaks it is shit, a gift, something to do. In our moment, of waiting, pointing, silent gear, what we went out for–that is pointing. Shit is the award. The award is shit. Eileen Myles
The Universe is very, very big. It also loves a paradox. For example, it has some extremely strict rules. Rule number one: Nothing lasts forever. <span style="margin:15px; display:block"></span>Not you or your family or your house or your planet or the sun. It is an absolute...
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Craig Ferguson
You’re in my every breath and every thought, intertwined so deep inside me that love’s not a strong enough word–you have my devotion, your name branded on my soul, my wolf yours to command. A hundred years? It’ll never be enough. I want eternity.
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Nalini Singh
For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. <span style="margin:15px; display:block"></span>Not like hermits who...
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Hermann Hesse
No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.
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Heraclitus
When you can live forever what do you live for?
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Stephenie Meyer
More Quotes By Eileen Myles
Literature is love. I think it went like this: drawings in the cave, sounds in the cave, songs in the cave, songs about us. Later, stories about us. Part of what we always did was have sex and fight about it and break each other’s...
Sometimes in utter hopelessness I put my cheek on the table like it was someone. I wanted to wake my brain up and be loved.
We're basking in language itself. The silence of my friend. My love. The one beyond words in her silence. She is always eternally before. When she speaks it is shit, a gift, something to do. In our moment, of waiting, pointing, silent gear, what we...
If passion was a substance I would say it is dark brown, and then blood red. It's like wet grass, tons of it soaked in mud. It's warm and it stinks like shit and it's unaccountably and endlessly good. It's thick and it goes on...
The bag I wanted was beyond reason - something to hold my poems, twice as big as the universe and it must be androgynous.
