"Each night father fills me with dread
As he sits at the foot of my bed
I don’t mind that he speaks
In gibbers and squeaks
But for seventeen years he’s been dead.”
- Edward Gorey
But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
—William Butler Yeats (via madness-and-gods)
I don’t consider myself a pessimist. I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain. And I feel soaked to the skin.
—Leonard Cohen (via mjalt)
Leonard Cohen on train from Marseilles to Nice (1981)
Max Ernst (French, born Germany, 1891–1976), Vulcano, late 1940s. Oil and mixed media on cardboard, 12.5 x 9 cm.
There aren’t enough pills to heal me from the things I see, every night in my dreams: your shining eyes, your face, you were staring at me, when you already knew we won’t meet again Bring me, oh bring me to sleep and let’s prentend that it’s not my fault. Would it change a thing If I ask you to come over? We would talk about your last words and what they’ve meant. I really want to know and I really want to sleep.
It’s a big word for me.
I feel it everywhere.
Almost, but not quite.
I’m hoping hard for that.
—Joan Bauer, Almost Home (via larmoyante)