The comfort of the other's words. The knowledge that emotions and thoughts run their course and sometimes reach our own stream. At a loss for words and yet drowning in them. And then… And then I want to write again.
These Things
by Charles Bukowski
| these things that we support most well have nothing to do with up, and we do with them out of boredom or fear or money or cracked intelligence; our circle and our candle of light being small, so small we cannot bear it, we heave out with Idea and lose the Center: all wax without the wick, and we see names that once meant wisdom, like signs into ghost towns, and only the graves are real. |