Sometimes a word, a sentence or a poem or a story, is so resonant, so right, it causes us to remember, at least for an instant, what substance we are really made from, and where is our true home. Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Ph.D., Women Who Run With The Wolves (via oldfilmsflicker) This book quite literally …

A nymph came pirouetting, under white Rotating petals, in a vernal rite To kneel before an altar in a wood Where various articles of toilet stood. Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire (via blood-black-nothingness)

“How did you know?” “How did I know what?” Inhale. “You know..” Pause. Exhale. Slight hesitance. “How did you know you love me?” “I knew it when you slapped me on the arm after I told a joke, and you were laughing so hard but no sound was coming out of your mouth. I knew …

Perhaps I am no one. 
True, I have a body 
and I cannot escape from it. 
I would like to fly out of my head, 
but that is out of the question. Anne Sexton, from “The Poet Of Ignorance“ (via watchoutforintellect)